Dance with the Devil
by ValerianCorvidae
Summary: The other shoe drops, and a house of cards comes tumbling down.


Dance with the Devil

The weeks after John's first day of work were tense - on his second day, John arrived at the Hub to find himself assigned a new office, and to find a gun and shoulder holster waiting for him on his desk. By the end of his first week, he was well on his way to feeling naked without it.

Tobe was gone on the second day, and when John asked after him, all Livvy would tell him was that he'd been sent to Cardiff. There was little time for other conversation - Livvy and Napoleon spent every waking minute in the Web, tracking down unauthorized programs, trying to find out what Sebastian had done to the systems and then rip his modifications out.

While they worked, and with little else to do, John focused on Mycroft. He had to put off the bloodwork that he'd wanted to do, for lack of anyplace to analyze it, but he insisted on the morning workouts. To his surprise, Mycroft turned out to be a well-trained fighter, versed in both savate and stick-fighting.

"Is that what the umbrella is for?" John asked after Mycroft helped him up after having knocked him down for the second time that morning.

Mycroft nodded, pushing his hair back off his forehead. "It's a Philippine development. Unbreakable umbrellas, specifically created for the personal guards of Madame President. I met the lady a few years ago, and we became friends. She gave this one to me as a gift. Would you like one?"

"I'd have to learn to use it first," John answered. He wiped his hands on his sweatpants and nodded. "Good to know you can handle yourself. Ever been in a real fight?" Mycroft hesitated. It was only a moment, but that moment was all that John needed. "You've never actually used any of this. All right. So we hone it. Make sure that it comes naturally, if you ever are attacked."

Mycroft looked thoughtful, nodded, and gasped in surprise as John bowled him over.

#

At the end of six weeks, John entered the Hub and was shocked to see a familiar face. "Tobe!" he called out. The young man looked up from his cup and smiled shyly.

"Hi, Doctor," he said. He looked down again, wrapping his hands around the mug.

"Welcome back," John said over his shoulder as he made a cup of coffee for himself. "I'm glad to see you."

"You are?" Tobe asked. "You really are?"

John smiled and sat down at the table with Tobe. "I really am. I missed you. And it was none of it your fault. How's your mother?"

"Fine, sir," Tobe answered. "She weren't hurt, just a bit scared. Once I was done at Cardiff, I was with her a few days, getting her settled. Himself, he set her up right. And there's not a chance in hell of that crazy bastard getting near her again, she's got that many cameras and guards on her."

"Good," John said, nodding. "Good. If anything, Tobe, you come to me. Understand?"

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. I'm... I'm not sure what I'm supposed to be doing. Have you seen Himself yet?"

"I only just got here," John said. "Mycroft isn't here?"

"I haven't seen him. Oi! Livvy? Your dad about?" Tobe called out. John turned and saw Livvy coming in from the direction of the Web.

"I haven't seen him," she answered. "I was supposed to meet him and Greg for breakfast this morning. Oh, hello, John! When did you get in?"

"Just now," John said with a nod. "It's Tuesday morning. You didn't have breakfast?"

"No. I was on my way to the restaurant when I got a text, let me know he had to cancel. Is there coffee?" She made her way to the counter and the coffee-pot.

"Why'd he cancel?" John asked.

"He said something had come up, and to go on without him. So I had breakfast with Greg this morning. Papa didn't say what, though. To tell the truth, I was surprised he wasn't here when I got here. I thought something had blown up somewhere important. " Livvy turned and leaned against the counter, sipping her coffee, then added absently, "Papa Greg says hi, by the by. He misses you at crime scenes."

"Papa Greg?" John echoed, and watched Livvy flush.

"I think you might not have the only Holmes wedding coming up," she said softly. "Tobe, you don't breathe a word of that!"

"Not me!" Tobe said fervently. Livvy grinned and took her mug with her as she went back down the hall towards the Web. Tobe left a few minutes later, mentioning that, since he had no other instructions, he was going to work on setting John's lab back up. John stayed at the table, sipping his coffee and chasing his thoughts around. Something wasn't right... something...

Mycroft had _texted_ Livvy. Normally, that wouldn't be unusual. But now that John was in close proximity to Mycroft every day, he had noticed something. There were two people which whom Mycroft did not text, with whom he would only telephone - his mother and his daughter. John pulled his mobile out of his pocket, noticing that the newly installed and very temperamental mobile signal was working this morning. Good.

_You awake? -JW_

_Of course I'm awake. What is it? -SH_

_Have you heard from your brother this morning? -JW_

_Thankfully, no. -SH_

_Why? Isn't he with you? -SH_

_No. He canceled his morning with Livvy and Greg, and he did it by text. -JW_

_He sent a text to Livvy? -SH_

_Yes. -JW_

_Meet me out front in half an hour. I'm on my way. -SH_

John put his mobile away, now very worried. His own new awareness still wasn't consistently right, but if Sherlock was going to drop everything and come at once, then whatever John was feeling, he was right. He got up and went to find Napoleon.

#

Half an hour later, John was waiting in the litter-strewn warehouse when Sherlock slipped inside.

"What's been happening?" he asked as he came forward, stripping off his gloves.

"Napoleon agrees that there is something wrong," John answered, leading the way into the lift. "He and Livvy are going over the CCTV footage from the route that Mycroft usually takes. His driver said that this morning, Mycroft opted to walk."

"Walk? Mycroft? That should have set alarms off over half the city," Sherlock said drily. John snorted and turned to face the closing lift door. "And?"

"And there's a problem. They found him easily enough, but between one camera and the next, he vanished."

"Impossible," Sherlock scoffed.

"I know. And so does Livvy," John said. He looked up at Sherlock. "When should we call Greg?"

Sherlock frowned slightly, lips pursed as he thought. Then he shook his head. "Wait until we know more."

"That's what I thought you'd say." The lift doors opened, and John led the way into the Hub. Napoleon was waiting for them at the end of the hall.

"Word of warning, Doctor," he said. "Livvy has started cursing in Greek."

"Greek?" John repeated. "And... this is a bad sign?"

"It means she's gone through French, Russian, Spanish and Italian," Sherlock answered. "And just who taught her to curse in Italian, Uncle?"

Napoleon smiled as he fell in next to them."Same person who taught you, Sherlock," he said as they walked towards the door to the Web.

"And you've seen the footage?" Sherlock asked.

"I have, and it is the damnedest thing. There is no discrepancy in the time stamps or in the feeds. He goes around the corner and... he's gone. There's no blind alley, no doorways, no storefronts. There is no place where he could have gone!"

The Web door slid open, and a string of gutteral syllables poured out into the hallway. Sherlock looked startled. "Cantonese?" he asked. "When did you add that?"

"It's more expressive," Livvy snapped. "I'm _missing _something."

John stepped into the room and out of the way, letting Sherlock go stand behind Livvy. "Show me," Sherlock said. Livvy nodded and did something on the computer in front of her. Immediately, a large screen in front of them flared to life, showing a street scene.

"This is down the street from the Diogenes. Papa stayed there last night for some reason. The feed starts about thirty seconds before Papa passes by the camera," Livvy said. "You can see there are no cars parked, and no other pedestrians. There is also no place here for anyone to hide." She fell silent as Mycroft appeared on the screen, walking purposefully towards the corner, then turning left.

"Jumping to the next feed," Livvy said. "This is just around the corner, and we should see Papa coming towards us. There is no delay in the time stamp." As she spoke, the scene changed, showing an empty street, with only leaves blowing in the breeze and cars passing in the background. A white van moved into frame, turned the corner, and disappeared.

"Where is he?" John asked.

"I don't know!" Livvy snarled. "It should have been seamless - he should have come right around that corner and walked towards us. The next camera on that street was pointing the other direction, so we have nothing. Somewhere between the last camera and this one, something happened, and I can't find out what!"

"We'll find him, Livvy," Sherlock said softly. "Play it again."

John stood at the rear of the room and watched the footage over and over. Sherlock loomed over Livvy's chair, looking like a gangly vulture, snapping out questions and demanding parts be played again. Before too long, John knew exactly which cars would pass the cameras at any given moment, and he was as certain as Livvy that there was something missing.

"Start it again," Sherlock said. As the feed started, John came closer. A yellow car entered the frame a few seconds after Mycroft, heading towards the same intersection. When the feed changed, Mycroft wasn't the only thing that disappeared.

"Where's the car?" he asked.

"Car? Oh! That yellow car!" Livy ran the footage backwards, and cocked her head to one side, frowning. "It's gone, too. Uncle?"

Sherlock didn't answer. He leaned over Livvy and started tapping on the keyboard. After a moment, he nodded. "Look there."

Livvy peered at the smaller screen and groaned. "Move over, Uncle Lock. Let me in here." Sherlock stepped back, and Livvy leaned over her keyboard, her fingers a blur. A few minutes later, she was shaking her head. "Someone got into the feed. But it's stupid, amateurish. I can't believe I didn't see this!"

"You were a bit distracted, Livvy," John offered. Livvy snorted.

"No excuse. I'm supposed to be better than that! Let me strip this out... there!" Livvy leaned back, and the feed started over again. This time, when the cameras changed, Mycroft came around the corner, the yellow car passing behind him. As he came towards the camera, someone ran into frame, barreling into Mycroft and carrying him out of sight.

"Can you get anything else? Another camera angle? Anything at all?" John asked. "Could you see the man who attacked him?"

"I'll try," Livvy said quietly. She leaned back over her keyboard, then frowned. "I... there's something here. It wasn't there before."

"What is it?" Sherlock leaned over to see.

"Data file," Livvy answered. "It... has my name on it."

"Oh," John breathed. "It's him, isn't it?"

Livvy licked her lips and looked up at him. "Only one way to know," she answered. "Can we get everyone in here?"

"Did you think we weren't?" Napoleon asked quietly. John turned to see him and llya standing just inside the door. Tobe and Anthea were in the hallway. "Play the file, Livvy," Napoleon said.

Livvy nodded and did something on her computer. The large screen when dark, then lit up again, showing an image of James Moriarty. The video file started: "Hello, Liv. If you're seeing this, then I know you've broken my little loop. So, here's the deal. You have something of mine, and I want him back. I have something of yours. For some reason, I assume you want him back, and I am willing to trade. I get my Sebastian back, and you get your father. In ten minutes, I will contact you with the information for the trade." The screen went dark, and no one said anything for a long moment. Finally, Livvy broke the silence.

"Mister Solo?" she said quietly, and John felt a chill. It was the first time he'd heard such cold formality inside the Hub.

Napoleon cleared his throat and answered, "Yes, Miss Holmes?"

"Code 20-A."

John turned to see Napoleon close his eyes for a moment, take a long breath, then nod. "Code 20-A. Understood."

"It's been a very long time since we last heard that," Illya murmured.

"What's code 20-A?" John asked.

"Number One is down," Napoleon answered. "Miss Holmes?"

"Initiating now," Livvy answered. She pressed several buttons, and the computer crackled back to life. On the large screen, a video started to play - Mycroft, sitting at his desk. He looked into the camera and nodded.

"If you are watching this, then you have been forced to initiate Code 20-A. As such, I am in no condition to command, and perhaps am no longer among the living. These are therefore my final orders. Command of the department will pass to my daughter, Olivia Holmes, who I know will do an exemplary job. It is my wish that Mister Napoleon Solo and Doctor John Watson be at her side to assist and advise her whenever possible." He paused, then smiled slightly. "I know this is a bit of a shock, Olivia. I also know you are more than capable. I am very proud of you, my dear." Mycroft reached forward, and the screen went dark. Livvy turned to face them, her face white.

"I... I thought he would pass it to you, Uncle!" she blurted out. Napoleon smiled and shook his head.

"That seat is for a young person, Miss Holmes. I told your father that if it was offered to me, I would not take it. You have my full support. You've been preparing for this your entire life."

"When did he film this?" Sherlock asked.

"Just after Doctor Watson joined us," Anthea answered. "He would regularly remake the recording every two months, just to be sure that it was current. Miss Holmes, what do we do now?"

Livvy closed her eyes and shuddered, her hands gripping the arms of her chair until her knuckles where white. Silently, Sherlock moved to her side and rested his hand on her shoulder. She smiled and reached up to touch his fingers, then sat up and squared her shoulders.

"First, I want that street cordoned off and examined. Uncle Napoleon, if you please? And Uncle Lock, go with him?"

"Of course," Sherlock said.

"And... would you call Greg, please?" She looked up at Sherlock who nodded once, squeezed her shoulder, then followed Napoleon out of the room, pausing only to wave at John, who returned the gesture before turning back to Livvy, who had continued speaking:

"Anthea, start making calls. Inform The Powers of the change, and that I will be their new security contact. Expect some kind of reprisal within the next six hours or so. No..." Livvy stopped and frowned. "Make that four. Call Scotland and see if you can borrow a half-dozen Slayers for a week or two, and get them here soonest. I think they'll suit for an extraction team, if we need to go in after Papa. Tobe, work with Doctor Kuryakin on defense. We're going on lock-down effective immediately. Uncle John, do you drive?"

John blinked and nodded. "Yes."

"Then you're with me. Anthea, we're going to need a car."

"Already on the way," Anthea answered.

"Very good. We'll be back sometime late this afternoon. I'll call Torchwood once we're out of London." Livvy stood up and looked around. "You know what you're supposed to do, ladies and gentlemen."

She walked past them out into the hallway, and John followed behind her, feeling as if he'd missed something.

"Where are we going?" he asked. "Torchwood? That place in Cardiff?"

"Yes. We're going to go and fetch Baz."

#

John managed to restrain himself until they were out of London and well on the way to Cardiff. Livvy sat next to him, studying the screen of an iPad that she'd picked up on the way out of the Hub.

"How are you doing?" he asked quietly. Then had to repeat himself.

"Oh. Oh, I'm fine," Livvy answered, obviously distracted. "Daddy said you were a fine driver, John. That I'd be all right with you."

"Good to know," John said, then asked the question that had been bothering him since before they'd left London. "Why are we getting Baz?"

"Hmm?" Livvy hummed softly, not looking up. "Oh. Bait. He's going to be bait."

"Is that wise?" John asked. "Dealing with a terrorist?"

"I'm not dealing with him, John. I'm drawing him out," Livvy said. From the corner of his eye, John saw her put the tablet down on her lap and turn in her seat. "He wants a trade. You heard him. Tonight, we're going to bring Baz to your favorite warehouse. Jimmy will tell us where Papa is, and he'll get Baz back. And then, our sharpshooters will drop them both."

"Livvy!"

"You object? Baz is a traitor and Jimmy is worse." Livvy looked back down at the tablet. "Can you give me a good reason why I shouldn't give the order?"

John glared at her, then focused back on the road, letting the miles pass as he turned the question over in his mind. She was right. He knew she was right. He'd pull the trigger himself, given the chance...

"Let me do it," he said abruptly.

"What?"

"Let me handle the exchange. Let me be the one who gives the order," he glanced over at her to see her staring at him. "Look, I'm a soldier. I've killed before. You shouldn't have that on your conscience, not at nineteen."

She didn't answer for several miles. When she did, it was in a quiet voice, "Thank you."

John nodded, not taking his eyes from the road. "Now, what's a Slayer?"

Livvy laughed. "Do you believe in vampires?" she asked.

"Vampire?" John repeated. "Really? Vampires?" He glanced at her, seeing the impish grin. "You're not joking."

"No."

"Right. Vampires. And Slayers are..."

"Vampire hunters. And other nasty paranormal things. But mostly vampires."

John nodded, "Right. So... vampires are real. What else?"

"Magic. Magic is real. Drives Uncle Lock right out of his mind, because he can't explain it. Papa hasn't told you about Torchwood, has he?"

"Not yet."

She laughed. "Oh, this is going to be fun! You'll see. Once we get to Torchwood."

#

They parked near Roald Dahl Plass, and walked into the plaza. Livvy led the way, stopping near the fountain. "Stand here with me," she said, moving slightly off center of one of the large pavement squares. John stood next to her and looked around.

"Now what?" he asked.

She smiled and pulled out her mobile, pressing a button and waiting a moment. "We're here," she said, then put the mobile back into her coat pocket. She took John's hand and squeezed it. "Brace yourself."

Before John could ask what she meant, the stone shuddered and started to drop into the sidewalk. "It's all right. It's a lift," Livvy said.

"A lift? How can there be a lift in the middle of the plaza?"

"It's invisible," Livvy answered. "There is a perception filter on that spot. If you're not standing on the square, you can't see anyone else standing there. So no one saw us. Welcome to Torchwood."

John looked around as the lift slowly lowered into a large cavern. "Extraordinary," he murmured. Then he blinked. Perception filters, scanners, technology that he knew was far too advanced... "Aliens. You're telling me now that there are really aliens. From outer space."

"Very good, Doctor!" Livvy hugged his arm. "Yes. Torchwood exists to protect us from interstellar threats. It's a very old organization. Dates back to the Victorian era, or so I'm told."

"And they're part of the department?"

"Actually, we're allies," a man said. He was waiting for them as the lift finally settled, then smiled brilliantly and held out his hand. "Captain Jack Harkness," he added.

"Ah. You're the Captain I've heard about," John answered, taking the offered hand. There was something odd about the man. Too good-looking for words, but... somehow he managed to be both younger than John and older. From the look in his eyes, much, much older. John wondered what Sherlock would have to say about the man. "John Watson," John said.

"Captain Doctor John Watson," Harkness corrected. "I've read your file. Hello, Livvy."

"Hi, Jack," Livvy answered. "No flirting. We don't have time for it today. How is he?"

"Owen is decanting him now." Harkness answered. "He should be conscious is about a half an hour or so. Come up to my office."

Harkness led the way up to a room that seemed to be made entirely of glass. They sat down, and a few minutes later, another man came in with a tray. He set it down on the table, next to what looked like a pretty piece of coral, then took a seat next to Harkness.

"Thank you, Ianto," Livvy said. "Ianto, this is..."

"Captain Doctor John Watson," Ianto finished. "I was listening. Nice to meet you, Doctor. I'm Ianto Jones."

"Thank you, Ianto. Nice to meet you, too," John answered. Something moved, and he turned his head to see... "Was that a dinosaur?" he gasped. "A... wha-d'-ye-call-it? Ptero..."

"Pterodactyl," Ianto answered. "That's Myfanwy. She's harmless. Coffee?"

John blinked, looked back at the two men sitting across from him, let out a long breath and shook his head. "Yes, please."

"You take this very well," Harkness remarked over his cup.

"Have you met my fiance?" John asked. That got a wide smile from Harkness.

"You'll do, Doctor. And no, I haven't met Sherlock yet. Is he as good looking as his brother?"

John smiled broadly, "Better. And he's mine."

"I could make it worth it for you to share," Harkness grinned back, then turned towards Livvy. "Do you need help? I'd be happy to come back with you..."

"First, you promised to behave yourself. No seducing my uncles. And second, thank you, but I think we'll be all right for now," Livvy answered. "Anthea is bringing in some Slayers, so I'll keep you and your team on stand-by. The last thing we need right now is to have the skies unprotected." She rubbed the tip of her nose and cocked her head. "Although... I might want to borrow Owen."

"You have a doctor," Ianto said. "Why another one?"

"This Owen, what sort of a doctor is he?" John asked.

"Standard BSBM, and a dissertation MD," Harkness answered. "He's very good at what he does, if you don't mind the complete lack of bedside manner."

John nodded. "Yes, then. We should borrow him." He smiled slightly and held up his left hand. "I'm not a surgeon anymore, you see. Left some of my fine motor control in Afghanistan."

Harkness grimaced, "I see your point. If you need a surgeon, you can't wait three hours for someone who won't ask questions. Ianto, would you tell Owen he's going on a field trip?"

"Right away," Ianto answered. He rose and left the room, and John turned back to Harkness.

"What did you mean by decanting?" he asked.

Harkness nodded, raising his mug and taking a sip. "You don't know anything about what we do here, do you?"

"Only that it involves aliens. And, apparently, dinosaurs..." he stopped and turned towards Livvy. "Time travel?"

Harkness burst out laughing. "Oh, he's _good_! Yes, Doctor, we do have contact with time travelers every now and again. But that has nothing to do with what we're talking about. Occasionally, there is a need for people to... disappear. For whatever reason. Some of those people end up here."

"And... what do you with them?"

"Come and see," Harkness answered. He rose and gestured towards the door.

#

The first thing John saw as they entered what appeared to be a medical unit was a familiar scanner. "Ah," he murmured. "What is it properly called?"

"That? A Bekaran deep-tissue scanner," Harkness answered. "Sorry about that, by the by. We dealt with the driver." He looked back at John and Livvy. "I should probably also apologize for Moran. He got past all of us."

"Not your fault, Captain," Livvy answered.

"In case any of you care, this isn't a conversation pit," a sharply caustic, Cockney voice snapped. "Some of us are working in here."

"Doctor Harper," Harkness called out. "One of your colleagues would like to know a little more about the process."

A small, dark-haired man appeared from around a piece of equipment that John knew he'd never be able to identify. "A colleague of mine? You all know what I'm... oh. It's the Brat." John bristled at the insult, but Livvy rested her hand on his arm and shook her head.

"Nickname. He doesn't mean any harm by it. And he's always being an arse. Hello, Owen."

He grinned, then nodded towards John. "Who's this?"

"Captain Doctor John Watson," Harkness answered. "Out of Mycroft's department."

"Is that so?" Owen shrugged. "You want to know what I'm doing?"

"If you have the time to explain," John answered. "I wouldn't want to get in the way."

Owen shrugged again. "Come down. Mind the steps. You two... shove off."

"We'll come back and collect you in a bit, John," Livvy said. "I want to go over our plans with the Captain."

"Right. See if he can find the holes." John nodded his agreement and walked down the steep, metal steps to where Owen was working. "A pleasure to meet you, Doctor," he said, offering his hand.

Owen just sniffed. "Sure about that?"

'We are going to be working together," John pointed out.

"Oh, are you the reason I'm getting shipped out to London? Why? Can't you put on a bandage?" Owen sniffed and looked at John, then his eyes narrowed and he stepped closer, tapping John's left shoulder with one finger. "What's wrong with the shoulder?"

"I didn't duck," John answered, unable to keep the temper out of his voice.

"Nerve damage?" Owen continued.

"Some," John admitted.

"And you were a surgeon before?"

John huffed and glared. "Yes. Is there a point...?"

Owen shook his head and winced. "Sorry, mate. Come on. I'll show you what I'm up to. Go ahead and ask - none of this lot would understand the process, but you might."

"All right. What are we doing?" John followed Owen into another room, and stopped when he saw the long, clear capsule that lay on the table in the middle of room. Inside, he could see Sebastian Moran. "He's alive in there?"

"Near enough," Owen answered, pulling on a pair of gloves. "I've been bringing him back up to blood temperature for the past three hours. He's just about ready for the final parts of the reanimation."

John frowned, thinking about what he'd read about suspended animation. "How do you keep from damaging the cellular structure when you bring him out?" he asked. "Everything I know about this says that when someone gets frozen, the cells end up completely disrupted."

"He isn't frozen. He's held at a low enough temperature to produce a near-death state. Technically, he's in stasis. And to be honest? I have no idea," Owen admitted. "I just know it works." He picked up a large syringe and filled it from a bottle, then laid it aside. "All right, just stand back. I'll talk you through it."

John moved over to stand hear the wall and watched as Owen opened the capsule. The sides slid down into the body of the tube, leaving Sebastian laying in something that looked oddly like a clear bathtub. Once the capsule was open, Owen went to work, narrating what he did as he injected the contents of the large syringe directly into Sebastian's chest, all the while watching a screen that hung over the table.

"Vitals?" John asked. Owen nodded and picked up another syringe, injecting that one into Sebastian's chest as well. He checked the screen once more, then nodded and stepped back.

"He should wake up... fifteen minutes about," Owen said. "His vitals are good, his heart rate is increasing just the way it should, and his brain function is stable."

John nodded, coming around to look at the screen. "Fascinating. Thank you for the explanation. Where did this come from?"

Owen shrugged. "Jack would know," he said. "Sometimes I think he brought all of this shite in here."

John arched an eyebrow. "Is he...?" his voice trailed off, and he gestured towards the ceiling. Owen snorted.

"What, an alien? Don't think so. He's human." Owen cocked his head and made a face. "'Cept for the not-dying part."

John was getting very tired of boggling. "I'm sorry, the what?"

Owen nodded. "Same reaction I had, first time I saw it. You can't kill him. Well, you can, but he won't stay dead. He comes back."

John nodded slowly, licking his upper lip and walking around the table. He looked at Owen across the open capsule. "You know, I always thought it was supposed to be six impossible things before breakfast. Today alone, I found out that there are really vampires, and that there are vampire hunters. Oh, and that magic is real. And aliens, and there are dinosaurs. And time travelers. Now, you're telling me that Jack Harkness is immortal."

Owen looked thoughtful, then nodded. "Yeah, that sums it up."

John let out a short, explosive breath. "Well, good. Thought I might have missed something."

Owen stared at him for a moment, then let out a bark of a laugh. "Go on. There isn't much to see here, and you look like you could use a drink. See if you can roust out the tea-boy. I'll bring him up when he wakes up."

"Right. Thanks, Owen. We'll talk more on the way back to London." John headed back the way he came.

#

Ianto met John halfway back, and saw him settled on a comfortable couch with more coffee and something to eat. He could see Jack and Livvy in the glass-walled office, sitting side-by-side over Livvy's iPad, and wondered what they were planning. Before he had made up his mind to join them, his mobile buzzed in his pocket.

_Has Harkness made a pass at you yet? -SH._

John snorted with amusement and texted back: _Of course he has. Made a long-distance pass at you, too. I told him I don't share.-JW_

_Nor do I. When will you be back? -SH_

_Four hours, I think. We should be leaving soon. Find anything? -JW_

_Nothing of import. Please tell Livvy that the Slayers will be arriving sometime this evening. Anthea arranged for a charter flight. -SH_

_I'll tell her. See you in a few hours. And be careful -JW_

_I love you, too. -SH_

John smiled and put his mobile away, looking up to see Owen coming towards him.

"He's awake," Owen said without preamble. "I have him restrained. How are you transporting him?"

"I hadn't given it any thought, actually," John answered. "Livvy is the one in charge."

Owen nodded. "Right. If you want him sedated, I can give him a timed dose."

"That might be for the best," Livvy said, coming down the stairs from Jack's office. "We'll need to be able to talk en route. The less he knows, the better. Speaking of which, what does he know?"

"Well, considering that I don't know what's going on, nothing," Owen answered.

"Ah. I thought John might have told you. Remember Moriarty?"

Owen scratched his ear and nodded. "Fucking nuts? Blew up a few people last year? Yeah, what of him?"

"He kidnapped my father," Livvy said, her voice flat.

Owen hissed, then murmured, "Livvy..."

"We're trading Sebastian for Mycroft," John said. "And as soon as Mycroft is safe, we're taking out the threat."

"You're going to kill them both?" Owen asked, looking startled. "Fuck. Right, well, want a slow-acting poison in that sedative? Save you a few bullets."

Livvy looked thoughtful. "Let me think on that, Owen. Thank you. I forgot to ask. Where are Gwen and Tosh?"

"Gwen's on her honeymoon," Owen answered. "Tosh is doing some field work. Martha called. UNIT found something, and Jack sent Tosh to take a look."

"Ah. Well, when they get back, give them my love?" Livvy asked. "Now, I'd like to talk to Sebastian, please."

#

Owen opened a door and led John and Livvy into what looked like a conventional hospital room. Baz looked up as they came in, but heavy medical restraints kept him from doing anything else. He blinked, looking confused.

"This is a surprise. Livvy, John. I'd say it was good to see you, but I know you're here for a reason."

Livvy didn't answer. She set her bag down next against the wall, walked over to the bed, and looked at Baz. Then, without warning, she slapped him across the face, hard enough that his head snapped around. Owen cursed and stepped forward, only to be stopped by John's hand on his arm.

"Let her be," John said softly.

Baz licked his lips as he turned his head to look up at Livvy. "Yeah, I deserved that one, Lovey. Want to hit me again? Will it make you feel better?"

Livvy stared down at him, now visibly shaking. "Don't call me that. You lost the right to call me that when you betrayed us."

"All right, Olivia. Why am I out of the deep-freeze?"

"Because your boss has my father," Livvy snapped.

"What?" Baz almost shouted. He tried to sit up, and the straps across his chest forced him back down. "You are shitting me!"

"I am not," Livvy said, folding her arms over her chest.

Baz just stared at her for a moment, then groaned and closed his eyes. "Jim, you stupid,_ stupid_ bastard. Damn it all, how can such a smart man be so god-damned dumb?"

"Where would he have taken Mycroft, Baz?" John asked.

Baz looked over at him and shook his head. "No idea. I don't know even a fraction of what he's got his fingers in. I'm his trigger-man, when he needs one. That's about it."

"It's never that easy, John," Livvy said. "It would be nice, but it's never that easy. Baz, we're taking you back to London. Tonight, we're going to have an exchange."

"Wait, what? Wait... you're giving me _back_?" Baz's voice spiraled up in shock.

"He says he'll give Papa back if we hand you over. On this, I believe him." Livvy turned and headed towards the door, picking her bag up and stopping next to John and Owen. "Owen, get him ready to travel, would you? I'm going to talk to Jack about borrowing one of the SUVs."

She left, walking quickly. John said something to Owen - he never could remember what - and followed her. She didn't go back to Jack's office, turning instead into another corridor, taking turns seemingly at random until she finally stopped.

"How far are you going to follow me?" she asked over her shoulder.

"How far are you going to go?" John asked in response.

She turned, and John wasn't surprised to see tears on her face. He held his arms open, and she walked into his embrace, resting her head on his shoulder.

"You're doing fine, Livvy," he murmured into her hair. "You're doing just fine."

She shook her head, and her voice was muffled against John's shoulder, "I really thought he loved me. I didn't care that he had someone else. I was happy with him."

"I'm sorry, Livvy," John offered. "I-"

"I know what you're going to ask. Yes, he was my first," Livvy cut him off and stood up, wiping her face with her hands. "I'm all right. For now. I was so... so angry. But hitting him didn't help at all. It just made it worse." She shook her head and squared her shoulders. "I'm fine," she said, her voice almost firm. John pretended not to hear the slight quaver, falling in next to her as she brushed past him and headed back towards the main section. "Let's go home."

#

The drive back to London was a quiet one, broken only by occasional snoring from the sedated Sebastian. Despite her earlier comments that they would be discussing plans on the trip back, Livvy was quiet, working on something on her iPad and occasionally kneading at her right thigh in a gesture that John found too familiar. He left her alone with her thoughts, chatting with Owen, who was riding with Baz in the second row of of the rather posh SUV. Owen, John soon learned, had graduated from St. Barts, and had been taught by Mike Stamford.

"How'd you end up at Torchwood?" John asked.

"Long boring story," Owen answered, his voice clipped. Subtext was clear - _drop it, John._ "How much longer?"

"In this traffic? Half an hour, maybe."

"When we get there," Livvy spoke for the first time since they'd left Cardiff. "There's a car park not far from the Hub. I'll show you where. You can park there."

"You going to join the conversation, Brat?" Owen asked, reaching forward to ruffle Livvy's hair. She batted at his hand and grinned.

"Arsehole," she muttered, and laughed. "All right. I've been thinking."

"We've noticed," Owen jibed.

"And?" John asked.

"And the operation is yours, John. You handle it however you wish. I'll be on-site when the transfer happens, but I'll probably be with the sharpshooters."

"Can you shoot?" John asked.

"Papa taught me," she answered. "Anthea says that the Slayers just arrived. We'll have... a little over an hour before Ji... before Moriarty calls with the location where Papa's being held, and we tell him where to meet us for the exchange. That's enough time to get everything and everyone into position."

"An hour?" John repeated. "Not much time. You said we're doing this at Mycroft's favorite warehouse?"

"Yes. I have schematics for you."

"Good," John answered, his mind already racing. "Good."

#

An hour later, John was in his office in the Hub, going over schematics and looking at photographs of the warehouse, all while making notes. He didn't look up when the door opened, recognizing Sherlock's step and his scent.

"What is your plan?" Sherlock asked, coming around to stand at John's shoulder.

"Sharpshooters here, here and here," John answered, pointing with the top of his pen. "And six of those Slayers here, here and here, in groups of two. It was nice of that... what was her name?"

"Miss Summers?"

"Yeah, her. Nice of her to send an even dozen. All right, access through here, everything else locked down. Only one way in, only one way out. Napoleon and I will be with Baz here. You... I want you with the sharpshooters. I want you where you can see, just in case."

"And out of the way?"

John smiled slightly. "Just in case. Do you see any holes? Anything I missed?"

Sherlock studied the schematics, then tapped one page. "What about ventilation ducts? Have you thought about that?"

"Livvy says that the ventilation ducts have gratings welded inside, and it would take a large torch and about half an hour to cut through. We'll have our people in place for half an hour before Moriarty even knows where to go," John answered. "Is that all you can see?"

Sherlock leaned close, head moving back and forth with slight, jerky motions as he studied the plans, the photographs. Then he nodded. "I believe so. I'll want to walk through once we get there."

"That's fine. But you will stay with the sharpshooters, understand?" John asked. Sherlock sniffed and didn't answer. "Sherlock?"

"I will stay with the sharpshooters. Who have arrived, and are waiting your orders."

John took a deep breath and nodded, gathering up his papers and tapping them into a neat pile.

"Time to brief the troops."

"John?" Sherlock sounded uncertain, and John turned and looked up at him. "Greg is here, too."

"Oh. How long has he been here?"

"Two hours, more or less. Anthea is with him now, but... " Sherlock sniffed again, looked away. "I... don't know what to say to him."

"So you've been avoiding him," John finished.

Sherlock glanced at him over his shoulder and gave a weak grin. "Yes."

"Is that why?" Greg Lestrade said from the doorway. Sherlock spun, his eyes wide, and Greg nodded. "Followed you. Wondered why you hadn't said anything to me. I mean, who'd have thought that the great Sherlock Holmes would be lost for words."

"Greg-" Sherlock's voice had a odd note, one that made John start to get to his feet. Greg winced and shook his head.

"Sorry. I keep forgetting that as hard as this is for me, it's worse for you. Look, I told Livvy that I'd come fetch you. It's almost time for the call."

"Thanks, Greg," John said. Greg nodded and turned to go, then stopped, one hand in his pocket.

"I was going to talk to My this morning," he said quietly. "Over breakfast. Never had the chance."

"Talk to Mycroft?" Sherlock repeated. "Talk... oh."

Greg nodded and took a small box out of his pocket, held it up for them to see. "I was all ready. Now..." he stopped, looked away. "Give me that chance, Sherlock."

"We'll do our best," Sherlock said fervently.

#

It was an odd, silent party - Livvy sitting on one side of a small table, surrounded by the men of the department. Anthea had gone on ahead with the Slayers and the sharpshooters, leaving Owen, Napoleon, Illya and Tobe to join Sherlock, John and Greg in their vigil. On the table in front of Livvy was her mobile, and across from her, his hands handcuffed behind his back, was Baz.

When the mobile finally rang, Livvy reached out and touched the screen. "You're on speaker," she said.

"Good. Everyone can hear me. I'm ready," Moriarty said briskly.

"As are we," Livvy said. "Now, let me tell you how this is going to happen-"

"You don't get to set the terms, Liv."

Livvy continued as if he hadn't spoken. "You will give us the location where you're holding my father. I will send a retrieval team. Once I have word from my team that my father is safe, then you'll get Sebastian."

"And if I refuse to play your game?" Moriarty asked.

From underneath the table, Livvy produced a gun. She cocked it, then leveled it at Baz, who yelped in surprise.

"If you refuse, you can listen to me blow Sebastian to hell," Livvy said, her voice flat. John blinked, looking up at Sherlock. Sherlock looked back and shook his head slightly.

"You have to the count of five," Livvy added. "One. Two. Three-"

"Jimmy!" Baz's voice was shrill. "She's not bluffing!"

"Four. Fi-"

"All right!" Moriarty snapped. "All right." He gave them an address, and Livvy nodded, gesturing with her other hand to Napoleon. He stepped away from the table and took out his own mobile, and Livvy turned her attention back to the table.

"Livvy? Could you stop pointing that thing at me?" Baz asked softly.

"The team is on it's way," Napoleon said, coming back to the group.

"Thank you," Livvy said. She looked down at the mobile. "All right, Jim. You can meet us in half and hour. I'll send the address by text."

To John's surprise, Moriarty started laughing. "It's true, isn't it? The female of the species is more dangerous than the male. I'll see you in thirty." The signal disconnected, and Livvy slowly leaned back in her chair.

"Liv? Sweet, you can put the gun away," Greg said softly. Livvy looked startled, then looked at the gun in her hand and smiled. She pulled the trigger, and a small flame danced at the end of the barrel.

"Anyone need a light?" she asked. The room was silent for a moment, then erupted into giggles that completely drowned out Baz's wordless, gargled moan.

#

"I can't believe she pulled a gun on me," Baz said softly, looking down at his shoes. John shook his head and glanced at Napoleon, who grinned. It was the fourth or fifth time that Baz had said much that same thing since they'd arrived at the warehouse.

"She pulled a lighter on you, son," Napoleon pointed out.

"She was going to kill me."

"Only if she doused you in lighter fluid first," Napoleon said. He was, John thought, having entirely too much fun with this. He turned and shook his head again, then stood a little straighter when a young, female voice murmured in his earpiece - one of the Slayers. He wasn't sure which, and hadn't gotten all of their names.

"He's here. Just got out of the car."

"Thank you," John answered, keeping his voice low. "Have we heard from the retrieval team?"

"Negative. Working on that now." That was from Livvy, who was with the sharpshooters on the catwalks some twenty feet above the warehouse floor. "Do not hand the prisoner over without word from me."

"My operation, Livvy," John reminded her.

A moment's silence, then... "Understood. Your operation. Your way."

"Thank you." John murmured, then looked towards the opening door. Moriarty walked in, stopping just inside the door. He held his arms out.

"I'm here," he called.

"We haven't heard back from the retrieval team," John said. "You're going to have to wait."

No banter, no sarcasm. Just a shrug of the shoulders. "That's fine. Seb?"

"I'm fine, Jimmy. Pissed as all hell."

"And pissed himself to all hell when our Olivia pulled a cigarette lighter on him," Napoleon added.

"A lighter?" Moriarty sounded absolutely gleeful. "She threatened you with a _lighter_? And you couldn't tell?" He laughed and asked, "Can she hear me?"

"She can," John answered.

"Oh, good," Moriarty said. Then he raised his voice, "Liv, my darling, I adore you! If you ever want to walk on the dark side, you have my number!"

"I've erased it," Livvy's voice sounded from the shadows.

"Pity. Can I have my Seb back now?" he asked, turning back to John. "I've done everything she asked. My men know to hand Mycroft over as soon as your team gets there. I haven't double-crossed you."

"This time," John said coldly.

Moriarty considered it, then nodded. "This time," he agreed. "So, can I have my lover so we can go home?"

John waited a moment, then nodded. "Mister Solo, unlock him."

"Doctor?"

"This time, we trust. This time." John glanced over his shoulder. "Go on, then."

Napoleon frowned slightly, but took the keys from his jacket pocket and quickly uncuffed Baz. The taller man stood, rubbing his wrists, then looked around. "Is that it?" he asked. "I can go?"

"Livvy?" John raised his voice.

"Working."

John scowled, then nodded. "You can go to him. But don't leave yet."

Baz nodded, took a long breath, then held one hand out towards John. "Sorry, John," he said. "Wish it could have been another way."

John didn't take the offered hand. Instead, he nodded towards where Moriarty was waiting. "Go on."

"Right. See you around, maybe," Baz said. He turned and hurried towards Moriarty, and John watched in surprise as the smaller man hugged Baz fiercely, then pulled him down for a kiss.

"You can go, Napoleon," John murmured. "I'll wait."

"You're sure?" Napoleon asked. John nodded, and the older spy slipped into the shadows and vanished. John remained by the chair, watching the reunion. After a moment, Moriarty realized that they were being watched; he turned, glaring daggers at John, who met his gaze unflinchingly. After a long moment, Moriarty sneered and snapped, "What do you _want_?"

It was, John thought later, the perfect straight line. The quote came without any hesitation,"'I'd like to live just long enough to be there when they cut off your head and stick it on a pike as a warning to the next ten generations that some favors come with too high a price. I would look up at your lifeless eyes and wave like this...'" He wiggled his fingers cheerfully in the air and continued, "'Can you and your associates arrange this for me?'"

Moriarty's jaw had dropped before John had reached the part about the pike, and by the time he was done, Baz was whooping with laughter, and Moriarty was sputtering.

"You... you're a _fan_?" he spat out. John just smiled.

"Told you it would be a mistake to kill him," Baz murmured, loud enough for John to hear.

Moriarty cocked his head to one side, then nodded. "This once, you may be right. It would be a shame to kill someone who can quote that extensively. You had something to tell me?"

"You danced with Livvy," John said.

Moriarty frowned, clearly uncertain where this line of conversation was going. "Yes, I did."

"Sherlock did a little digging, after we saw the video," John continued. "Did you know that Livvy had stopped her physical therapy? Or that she started again after you pushed her to dance?"

"I didn't," Moriarty admitted. "Why is that important?"

"Because of that one, unadulterated good thing that you did for a young lady I admire, I'm letting you have Sebastian back," John said quietly. He gestured, and a dozen pinpoints of scarlet light blossomed on Moriarty's chest. John gestured again, and the lights blinked out. "And because off what you did for Sherlock, I'm letting you live. This time."

"You're stealing my tricks?" Moriarty asked with a laugh.

"Whatever works," John said, shrugging. "As soon as we hear from the team, you two can get out of here."

Moriarty stepped forward, then looked down at the single scarlet light that appeared over his heart. He raised his voice, "I'm not going to hurt your pet, Sherlock. Although I am starting to wonder who the pet is in this relationship." He turned his focus back to John. "Tell Liv... tell her..."

"Tell me what?" Livvy asked, coming out of the shadows. John glanced at her in shock.

"What are you doing down here?" he demanded. She ignored him, her eyes on Moriarty.

"I just heard from the retrieval team," she said, her voice eerily calm. "Where's my father, Jimmy? He's not where you said we'd find him. There's no one there but a pair of dead guards."

"What?" Baz gasped. "Jimmy!"

"I left him there!" Moriarty protested, talking over his shoulder to Baz before looking at Livvy and raising both hands in a gesture of surrender. "I know you have no reason to believe me, but I didn't double-cross you, Liv. Not on this."

"I know, Jimmy. I do believe you," she said. "From the looks of it, someone double-crossed you. So if you don't have him, then who does?

The look on Moriarty's face faded from shock into speculation, then blossomed into pure fury. Next to him, Baz cursed.

"Which one, Jimmy?" he demanded. "Which of those bastards did you you screw up and trust?"

Moriarty turned and glared at him. "I did it to get you back!" he snapped.

"And they took advantage of you!" Baz yelled back. "Which one?"

Moriarty narrowed his eyes, then huffed and turned away. "Milverton," he answered.

Baz looked shocked. "Mil... oh, fuck." He ran his fingers through his hair, turning on his heel and stalking away from Moriarty. Then he turned, look at John. "I want to help."

"Seb!" Moriarty gasped. Sebastian wheeled and faced him, his face stony with anger.

"I told you not to trust that fuck!" Baz snapped. "I told you he was dangerous, I told you he was going to stab you in the back, and that you needed to let me put him in the ground. But you wouldn't listen! You told me you could run him. Well, he's fucking running you now, Jimmy! And I'm not letting you pin this one on me!"

For a moment, Moriarty looked frightened, and very much alone. Then his face hardened, and he looked up at Baz with contempt. "You're abandoning me?"

Baz shook his head. "No. Never. But if we don't take Milverton out now, you're going to be his next target. Jimmy, he's gone and taken over. He's taken control of the empire, and he's not going to risk you coming back."

"Milverton. Charles Milverton?"

Somehow, John wasn't surprised that Sherlock had come down to join in the conversation. He was surprised that Moriarty didn't acknowledge his approach with his usual banter. Instead he simply nodded.

"Fill me in," John said quietly as Sherlock came to stand at his shoulder. "Milverton is...?"

"A serial blackmailer. A hacker, and a very good liar. He preys on the rich, the powerful. He uses whatever information he can steal or fabricate to control his victims physically, financially, emotionally and sexually. And he's good enough that I have not yet been able to help the Met build a case to stop him," Sherlock answered, his voice flat. John looked up to see Sherlock staring at Moriarty, his eyes never seeming to blink. "You kidnapped my brother, and you left him in the keeping of a sadistic, megalomaniacal genius. And you are surprised that it went badly. You did not think this through, Jim. I'm disappointed in you."

It was, John realized, the most damning thing that Sherlock could have said. Moriarty went pale, and seemed to lose the ability to speak. He opened his mouth, closed it again.

"I'm curious. What are you going to do to fix it?" Sherlock asked, cocking his head slightly to one side.

"What?" Moriarty asked.

"We're going to help," Baz answered, almost at the same time. He looked down at Moriarty, rested his hand on the shorter man's shoulder. "Tell me you've never done something stupid out of love?"

Sherlock opened his mouth to answer, and stopped when John raised his hand. "Don't. Don't answer that. Because if you say what I think you're going to say, I'm going to have to tell them about the chocolate cake and the stiletto heels, and do you really want me to do that?"

Sherlock's eyes went wide, and his mouth snapped shut.

"... stiletto heels?" Baz murmured. "Damn." He looked down at Moriarty again. "What size would you wear?"

"Not now, Baz," Livvy said firmly. "You're in?"

"Yes," Baz answered.

"For now," Moriarty added. "Until this mess is cleaned up."

"Fine. Let's get out of here," she said. "The cars are that way. Gentlemen?" She gestured, and Baz nodded. John moved to stand next to Livvy as Moriarty and Sebastian were met by Napoleon and Anthea, and escorted out of the warehouse.

"Are you really taking them back to the Hub?" John asked.

"Baz already knows where it is, John," Livvy pointed out. "It's isn't a security breach when security has already been broken." She stopped, looked at him, then at Sherlock. "Chocolate cake and stiletto heels?"

"Never happened," Sherlock said crisply.

"I had to say something," John added. Livvy laughed and headed towards the car. John turned to follow her, and felt Sherlock's hand on his shoulder.

"I know so many interesting ways to murder you, you know," he said softly.

"Oh, I know. But who else is going to buy you those heels?" John answered, just as quietly. He smiled sweetly up at Sherlock.

The two of them giggled all the way to the cars.

#

"Have the Slayers secure the site," Sherlock said as he got into the car. "I need to see it."

"I'll tell them," Livvy said. "Shall we go there first?"

"I want to see, too. I want to see what happened," Moriarty said. He was in the backseat, sitting between Sherlock and Napoleon. Baz, by wordless agreement, had been sent to the other car. "Milverton, he wasn't even involved in this. I didn't tell him anything. I need to know who did."

"All right," John agreed. "Livvy, can you navigate? And... bring the Slayers."

Livvy nodded, tapping something into her mobile, then pulling her iPad out of the car door pocket. She tapped the screen and looked up. "The other car is away. Back to the Hub."

"Good. And the Slayers?"

"Waiting for us to pull out."

John nodded and started the car, pulling around the warehouse and out onto the road. Another car fell in behind them, and he checked to make certain that it was one of the department cars before accelerating.

"What was your plan, Jim?" Sherlock asked.

Moriarty tipped his head to one side, "Just... get Seb back. I knew you'd trade him for your brother."

"In other words, you weren't thinking, you were reacting," Napoleon said, looking out the window. "It's hard to keep your head, when you're young."

"But that is not what I'd expect from you," Sherlock continued. "Not that emotional reaction. I'd hardly have thought you capable of it."

"Why not? You are," Moriarty pointed out. "Imagine if it were your John. What would you do, to get him back?"

"Almost blow up a swimming pool," John answered softly from the front seat.

Moriarty sniffed, amused. "So, you do understand. Turn left here, it's faster."

Finally, they pulled up in front of a small, ramshackle flat in a neighborhood that had seen better years. Moriarty frowned as he looked out the window.

"Something isn't right," he murmured.

"Where are the Slayers?" John asked, then nearly jumped out of his skin when someone rapped on the driver's side window. He turned to see one of the girls grinning at him, and rolled the window down.

"We've locked the whole place down," she reported, unreasonably cheerful. "No one has gone in or out since we found the dead guys."

"How were they killed?" Moriarty asked.

"Looks like large caliber at short-range," she answered. Her nose wrinkled, and she added, "It's kinda messy in there."

Moriarty leaned forward, looking at the Slayer. "You can't be more than seventeen. Are they recruiting from American high schools?"

She grinned, showing off dimples. "He's cute. Can I use him as a punching bag later?"

"Behave yourself, Chelsea," Livvy said. "Or I'll tell Buffy."

The girl sobered, "Yes, ma'am."

"Shall we go take a look?" Sherlock said brightly. He started to open the car door and stopped when Moriarty grabbed his arm.

"No. No, something is wrong!" he insisted. He turned and looked at Chelsea. "You haven't been inside?"

She frowned, shaking her head. "Not since we found the dead guys, no."

"How many?"

"Dead guys? Three." Chelsea gnawed her lip. "Can't really give you descriptions. They don't have faces any more."

John heard Livvy's murmured "Oh, my God," then turned in his seat. "How many did you leave?"

"Four," Moriarty answered.

"And... any idea what's triggering you?" John nodded towards the house. "What are you seeing?"

Moriarty looked out the window, then shook his head. "I don't know. I know it, but I don't see it."

John nodded, then asked, "Would a closer look help?"

"Maybe," Moriarty answered. He sounded uncertain, which John found deeply disturbing. Either he was bluffing, playing a part to draw them all out, or...

"Chelsea, call in the others. I want everyone on high alert. Assume that they've been waiting for us," John said. Before he was finished talking, Chelsea was gone, and John turned in his seat again. "This is the logical first stop, right?" he asked the men in the backseat. "Something went wrong here, so we come to see what we can find out? Am I going the right direction here?"

"Yes," Sherlock confirmed. "In all likelihood, there is an ambush of some kind set up in or around the house."

"Sir?" Chelsea was back at the window, something bulky under her arm. "Linda found this. It's got a note on it. It wasn't there the first time we made a sweep."

"Right, what is it?" John asked. He felt his seat move, and glanced back to see that Moriarty had pulled himself forward, one hand on the driver's seat for leverage.

"That's my laptop!" he gasped.

"You're James?" Chelsea asked. She held the laptop out, and John could see the envelope taped to the top. In an unfamiliar hand, the name "James Moriarty" was scrawled in thick, black ink.

Moriarty started to reach across John, then stopped. He drew back and looked at Napoleon. "May I get out?" he asked. "I don't think this should be done in the car."

Napoleon nodded, opening his door and getting out of the car. Moriarty followed him, and took the laptop from Chelsea. He set it onto the ground, and sat down tailor-fashion in front of it, opening the top and pressing the power key. John opened his own door and turned in his seat for a better look, hearing car doors open and close behind him. When he looked up, he wasn't surprised to see Livvy and Sherlock coming around the car. What did surprise him was that Sherlock went to crouch behind Moriarty, peering over his shoulder at the computer on the ground.

"Has it been tampered with?" he asked.

Moriarty nodded. "Yes. It accepted my log-in, though. I'm not sure -"

_Hello, Jimmy-boy!_

It was a smooth voice. Almost oily in its tone, and John felt an almost instinctive urge to lunge at the computer and close the top. He looked up and saw the Slayers closing in around them - a quick count showed that all dozen where there. Good.

_Time for you to retire, Jimmy-boy. Between your obsession with that detective and your mooning over your little lover-boy, you've lost your edge. So consider this your going-away present. Oh, and thanks for my new little toy. I'm going to have fun breaking him._

The message ended, and the computer went briefly dark before arcing, spitting bright sparks into the air and making Moriarty scramble backwards into Sherlock to avoid getting burned.

"All right, what was the point of-" Napoleon started to ask. His words were cut off by a muffled _crump_ - John had just enough time to grab Livvy's arm and pull her into the shadow of the car before the the explosion. It rocked the car, sending a shower of glass, brick and wood fragments cascading over the street. John glanced quickly from side to side, seeing Slayers scrambling, getting under any cover they could find. Napoleon was on the ground, but as John watched, he picked himself up and shook his head, crawling towards them.

"I'm getting too old for this," he muttered.

John nodded and turned, seeing Sherlock pressed against the side of the car, raised up just enough that he could see through the windows towards the burning flat. Moriarty was next to him, and his face was as white as ivory.

"Everyone all right?" John shouted. "Chelsea!"

"We're fine! No damage!" Chelsea shouted back. "Bug out?"

"Go! Meet back at the Hub!" John answered, and watched as the girls ran for their cars. Quickly, he herded his own people back into their car, climbed back into the driver's seat and gunned it.

"Is everyone all right?" he asked once they were moving.

"I'm fine," Livvy answered.

"Jim and I were undercover when the explosion hit," Sherlock chimed in, and John wondered just when he'd decided to use Moriarty's given name.

"I got knocked off my feet," Napoleon said. "Might have a few bruises. Nothing serious."

John nodded, then glanced into his rear-view mirror at Moriarty. The look on his face was one that John knew - it was the same look he'd seen on the faces of new recruits. Men who had come into the army thinking they were invulnerable, immortal, and who soon learned that they were nothing of the sort.

"Jim?" he said softly.

At the sound of his name, Moriarty looked up. He met John's eyes in the mirror, and slowly shook his head. He looked almost puzzled.

"I've lost," he said, sounding completely incredulous. "I've lost... everything."

#

Moriarty didn't say another word for the rest of the drive back to the car park. At one point, Livvy caught John's eye - she tapped something onto her iPad, then angled it so that John could read the one word: _Shock?_

John considered it, then nodded. Livvy turned the iPad and started tapping on the screen again.

"They're waiting for us," she said after a moment.

John parked the car and Livvy led them into the lift that would take them down into the Hub. Waiting for them at the bottom were Illya, Owen and Baz. Illya immediately pulled Napoleon off to one side, leaving Owen and Baz to close on Moriarty.

"Jimmy?" Baz asked. "What happened?"

"One of the guards turned," Moriarty said in a flat voice. "He was working for Milverton. The other three are dead. They rigged the flat, hacked into my computer. When I logged in, the flat blew up."

"Jesus!" Baz gasped. "Jimmy, are you all right?"

"We'll find out, huh?" Owen said. He took Moriarty's arm and tugged him down the hall. "Come on, then. Let's have a look at you."

It was, John thought, a clear sign of just how shaken Moriarty was when he offered no resistance, no argument. He went docilely along with Owen, and Baz followed along with them.

"As far as Milverton knows, Jim is dead," John said. "That is going to be to our advantage."

"John, you were doing so well," Sherlock chided. "There isn't any way that Milverton is going to leave this to chance. He'd have had someone watching the flat."

"If that's the case, then I want to check the cameras. I thought I saw two, at least," Livvy said. She looked over to where Napoleon and Illya were standing, lost in soft conversation. "Uncle?" she called. Napoleon looked up and Livvy gestured. He nodded.

"I'll meet you there," Napoleon said. Livvy nodded and headed off down the corridor.

Once they were alone, John looked up at Sherlock. "Now what do we do?" he asked.

"We find Mycroft."

#

When they reached the main section of the Hub, they found most of the Slayers milling around, chatting with Anthea. John looked around and called out.

"Which one of you is Linda again?"

Giggles, and a petite ginger stepped forward. "Me, sir," she said.

"Where did you find that computer, Linda?"

"On the counter in the kitchen," she answered. "I thought I'd give everything one more going over, and I promise, it wasn't there the first time we checked the house."

John nodded. "Did you see anything or anyone? Any of you?" He looked around at the girls; the mood had turned serious, and they talked quietly, comparing their observations, until at last Chelsea stepped forward.

"No one saw anything. Whoever these guys are, they're good."

"Or that had another way into the house," Sherlock murmured. "Did anyone think to check?"

"For... what?" Chelsea asked slowly.

Sherlock sniffed, "And you call yourself a Slayer? Secret panels? Tunnels? A _basement_? Did none of you think to _look_?"

Chelsea looked around, then back at Sherlock, her face slightly pink. "No, sir," she said in a small voice.

"Sherlock, how are you so certain there was a basement or another way in?"

John looked up as Greg came into the room. Sherlock turned and nodded, but didn't answer with his usual acidity.

"There is software in the CCTV system for facial recognition. I'd wager that Livvy has had it running since this morning, looking for Mycroft. If there are cameras on that street, and if they had seen Mycroft, they'd have set off alarms."

"But supposing they transported him... inside of something?" John asked. "A box, or a large crate?"

"Oh, very good, John," Sherlock said with a smile. "Chelsea?"

"Nothing large enough for a body. That we did look for," Chelsea answered.

"So either they took it away, which is inefficient and could cause someone to take notice that there were deliveries being made to an obviously uninhabited flat, or there was another way inside."

"Tunnel, in the basement," Baz said, coming towards them. "It had a deadman switch, though. It would collapse in on itself. They probably triggered it to go up when the house went up."

Sherlock nodded, "And it came out where?"

"Got a map? I can show you."

Anthea murmured something about getting a map and hurried away. John looked at Baz and sighed.

"How is he?"

"Right now? Plastered," Baz grinned slightly. "I didn't realize that Owen's idea of treatment for shock involved a fifth of scotch. By the time I knew what was in the glass, Jimmy had downed all of it."

"He's drunk?" John gasped, and laughed.

"As a lord," Baz agreed.

"Wait. Wait," Greg broke into the conversation. "Jim... Jim Moriarty? He's here?" His voice grew louder, and the Slayers all went silent; John realized that all twelve girls had gone on alert. "The bastard who kidnapped My is _here_?"

John nodded slowly. "His people turned on him. They have Mycroft now, and Jim is going to help us find him."

"And you believe him?" Greg was near yelling now, and as furious as John had ever seen him.

"Inspector, I promise you, we're going to make this right," Baz said softly. "Yeah, Jimmy went too far. He knows it, and he's going to fix it."

"He's going to fix it," Greg repeated. "How about I fix it? I'll start with ripping your head off and shoving it straight up your-"

"Papa Greg!" Livvy sounded shocked, and Greg pulled back and turned towards her as she came through crowd of Slayers. "Greg, I cleared them. I believe them. They're going to help us get Papa back. I know you're angry. I am, too."

"She already tried to take my head off," Baz grumbled.

"But we can't fight between ourselves. Not now," Livvy continued. She looked around. "Chelsea? Buffy called. There's been a discovery in Wales, a nest of some kind of demons with unpronounceable names, and you all are needed. Anthea is making arrangements to get you there soonest."

"Well, that's Wales for you. It's all unpronounceable. You heard her, ladies," Chelsea said, her voice carrying throughout the cavern. "Let's get our gear." She turned back to Livvy. "I hate to leave you short-handed-."

"We'll be fine. I have other markers I can call in, if I need to. Thanks, Chelsea."

The Slayers hurried out, and Livvy turned towards the men. "Anthea said you needed a map of the area where we just were?" she asked Baz.

"Yeah. There's a tunnel. Probably how they got your dad in and out."

Livvy nodded. "There was nothing on the cameras at all, except for us and the Slayers. Come on. Show me where to look."

"Come along, Inspector," Sherlock said, reaching out and taking Greg's arm. "Let's work off some of that temper."

"Where are you going?" John asked.

Sherlock looked over his shoulder and winked at John. "Did you know that our Detective Inspector boxes?"

"Boxes?" John echoed. He closed his eyes, shook his head, and called after the two men. "Greg, avoid the face!"

He could have sworn that he heard a snort of laughter coming back towards him.

#

Left at loose ends, John made his way down to the Web, where he found Livvy working at her terminal while Baz paced behind her.

"All right, I think I have something," Livvy said as John came in. "The time on this is at the same time we were meeting with Jimmy in the warehouse."

She started the video, and they watched as a pair of men used a trolley to move what looked like a regular cardboard box into a white, unmarked panel van. The van was closed up, and sped away. For some reason, Livvy let the feed run, and in a moment, John saw why. Another unmarked panel van pulled up, and another cardboard box was loaded, one that was exactly the same as the first as far as John could tell. The procedure was repeated again two more times before Livvy stopped the feed.

"I've started tracking those vans," Livvy said. "It'll take me a few minutes to have something. Then... we could have used the Slayers. Four possible sites? And once we check one, they'll know we're on to them. I wish..."

"There might be a way," Baz suggested. "Milverton has a couple of spots that he uses regularly. His dungeons, he calls them. Odds are good that if he's thinking of your dad as... well, he might take him to one of those."

"Dungeons?" John asked. "That sound ominous."

"It shouldn't, but yeah," Baz turned and ran his fingers through his hair. "Look, I'm not saying I have anything again kink. Sometimes, it's fun to add some spice, right? I like being taken down a peg. But Milverton? He asked me to come with him once, to one of the leather bars. Jimmy was out of town, so I figured why the hell not?" Baz frowned, crossing his arms in a defensive gesture. "I didn't go as a bottom that night. Some crazy instinct told me not to, to go as another top, even though that isn't my gig. And... yeah, he picked up this fresh-faced kid. Couldn't have been more than twenty. Shiny leathers and a brand-new collar. Just out of uni and looking for a Daddy. Milverton... he way he took that poor kid apart. Scared the actual fuck out of me. He's not a top, he's not a dom. He's a predator."

John shook off the fascination at Baz's story and turned to see Livvy looking up at them, her face white as paper. Baz met her eyes and flinched.

"We need to find him," she said, her voice hoarse. She turned back to her screen, her hand hovering over the keyboard. After a moment, she started typing furiously.

Taking the hint, John took Baz by the arm and tugged him towards the door. As the door closed behind them, Baz shook his head.

"I shouldn't have said that, should I?" he asked.

"Probably not."

"I'm a moron."

"Probably. But you can fix that. Come on, let's get the addresses for those dungeons and start mapping things out."

#

The London map was spread over one of the wide tables, and red dots marked the places that Baz had called Milverton's dungeons. John was marking the address of the house that had been destroyed when he heard someone yawning behind him.

"Hey, sleepy-head," Baz called out. "Coffee?"

"Yes, thank you," Moriarty said. "What are you doing?" he asked as he came up next to John. John fought back the urge to flinch away, turning to see Moriarty standing there barefoot, his hair tousled and his clothes wrinkled.

"Possible places where Milverton might have gone to ground with Mycroft," he said.

"Oh, his torture chambers? There are three more," Moriarty said. He rattled off the addresses and looked past John. "Thank you, Seb. What about his houses?"

"Houses?" John looked up from marking the second new address. Moriarty nodded as he took a sip of coffee, swallowing before he answered.

"He rotates where he lives. So no one knows where he is at any given time," Moriarty said. "In the... what is it, three years? Three years that he's been part of my network, he's had sixteen addresses. I have - had - a program on my laptop specifically to keep track of his alias and whenever he bought or sold real estate."

"So it's possible that he might have had a place that you didn't know about?" John asked.

"Possible? Yes. Probable?" Moriarty cocked his head to one side, frowning as he took another sip of coffee. "I don't think so."

"Can you recreate that program?" John wanted to know.

"Of course," Moriarty answered with a shrug. "Child's play."

John smiled. "Come with me," he said, heading toward the Web.

The door opened, and John heard loud music - something with a Motown feel to it. Next to him, Moriarty laughed.

"_Archandroid_? You're still listening to this?" he called out.

"You should talk, Mister I've-Got-the-Bee-Gees-as-My-Lover's-Ringtone," Livvy said without turning around. When Moriarty started to giggle, she turned and looked at him. "You okay?"

"Not so you'd notice, but I'll do," Moriarty answered. "You?"

"Running on sheer willpower. What are you two doing here?"

Briefly, John explained what he was thinking - that Moriarty recreate his program to find out what properties Milverton owned under his various alias. Livvy nodded and pointed to another terminal.

"That one," she said. "Uncle Lusha is making Uncle Napoleon take a nap. I think we might want to keep them in reserve, John. He's right - he is too old for this."

"You don't dare say that where he can hear you," John pointed out, and Livvy smiled.

"Not me. But he is. He turned seventy-nine on his last birthday, John."

"That other man? He's that old?" Moriarty asked, looking surprised. "He doesn't look it. Or move like it."

"I'll see what we can do," John said. "You two get some work done. Have you seen Tobe?"

"I think he was helping Anthea see the Slayers off," Livvy answered. "Not sure. If you want us to work, John, go find someone else to bother."

John nodded and left, going back to find Baz leaning over the marked map.

"You said something about a homeless network?" Baz asked as John joined him.

"What about my Irregulars?"

John turned and Sherlock came towards them, taking in the untucked shirt, the rolled up sleeves, and the patch of deep red on one cheek that promised to be a spectacular bruise before the day was done. He rolled his eyes, and Sherlock smiled.

"My own fault," he said. "I misread his cues. What have we here?"

"Possible boltholes," Baz answered.

"And we'll have more whenever Moriarty finishes whatever computer wizardry we just set him up to do. Which means we'll need reconnaissance."

Sherlock was nodding. "And the Irregulars will be most effective. Yes, I agree. Let me get them set on these, see if we can rule them out." He pulled out his mobile, sent a quick text, then put the mobile away and raked one finger through his hair. He grimaced. "Shower. I need a shower."

"That can wait until we get home," John said.

"Actually, you've been assigned living quarters one level down," Anthea said briskly. "I assumed one bed would serve? Colonel, you have your old room."

"Thanks, Thea," Baz said with a smile. "Where are they?"

"Two doors down on the left."

"Fine. Sherlock, if you want that shower, I'll show you where."

"And if you want anything from Baker Street, make a list and I'll send Tobe to fetch it," Anthea added. "Clothing we have, for both of you."

"Do I want to know how you have my measurements?" John asked. Anthea dimpled at him and walked away, leaving him shaking his head.

"She's a witch, I swear," Baz muttered. Then he blinked and looked thoughtful. "Hey, that's an idea!"

"What is?" John asked.

"Have you met Willow yet?" Baz asked, then shook his head. "No, you wouldn't have. Not if you only just met the Slayers. She's a witch. Actual, bona-fide slap-you-upside-the-head-from-across-the-room witch. I wonder if she could find Mycroft?"

"How?" Sherlock demanded.

"Crystal ball," Baz answered, then snorted at the look of disgust on Sherlock's face. "Seen her do it. She's scary, but she's on our side. So I can deal with the scary little witch. Excuse me for a minute, will you?" He hurried off after Anthea.

"Where's Greg?" John asked.

"Greg?" Sherlock asked, almost distracted as he studied the map. "Oh, he's with that new doctor."

"Sherlock, you didn't hurt him, did you?"

"What?" Sherlock looked up, then frowned. "No, of course not. He said he had a bit of a headache."

"Right. How many times did you hit him in the head?"

"Once... no, twice."

"Sherlock, we've gone over this. Don't damage the Detective Inspector. We'll need him later."

"I did apologize!"

John laughed and nodded. "Well, that is something. Go take your shower."

Sherlock nodded and turned away. Then he turned back and held his hand out. "Come keep me company."

"Sherlock!"

"There isn't anything you can do right now. Livvy and Jim are working, and won't be done for an hour. The reconnaissance will take at least that long. No one else needs you, and they won't for a half an hour at the very least. Come and keep me company."

John smiled slowly. "Well, when you put it that way." He caught up with Sherlock and took his hand. "Half an hour?"

"Perhaps."

#

The shower actually did take just about half a hour, but because it was preceded by almost fifteen minutes of frantic shower sex, and followed by a half hour nap, it was almost an hour and a half before John returned to the working areas of the Hub. He could smell something cooking, but there was no one in the kitchen. In fact, the only person at the tables was Napoleon, who smiled as John came into view.

"I was wondering where you'd gotten off to," he said. "We've gotten some information. More addresses. Jim has updated the map." John came closer, and saw that the red dots on the map had more than tripled. He frowned.

"How are we going to check them all?" he asked.

"The Irregulars are working on it. We've been getting reports. So far, it's been looking like some of those addresses are abandoned. The ones marked out," Napoleon said, pointing. John looked closer, and saw the marks.

"Looks promising. What smells so good?"

Napoleon smiled. "That young man. Jim," he said. "He finished his program and decided he was hungry. He came out here, and was appalled at the state of our kitchen. And then even more appalled by the state of our pantry."

John started to laugh. "What did he do?"

"I was surprised, actually," Napoleon admitted. "He asked, very nicely, if he could send someone to Tesco with a list and a credit card. Since most of his arguments about our kitchen agree with the ones that Anthea has been making, she volunteered to go. What is in the oven right now is-"

"Cottage pie, roasted cauliflower and some ready-to-bake rolls that aren't too horrible. No time to make fresh," Moriarty finished. He smiled as John turned on him in shock. "I like to cook, Doctor. I just don't have time to do it often. Ask Liv. I make a very good curry."

"I look forward to trying it," John said. "How's the head?"

Moriarty shrugged. "I don't get hung over. I get very drunk, I pass out, then I'm fine."

"Lucky," Baz gibed as he came in. "We're about to have a video conference with Willow, John. Want in?"

"Yes. I'm curious about how a witch is going to help us," John answered. He followed Baz down the hall to the Web.

#

"Hi!" the pretty red-haired woman on the screen grinned and looked around. "Wow. Didn't know I'd have an audience. Neat."

"Hi, Will," Livvy said. "Baz said he briefed you?"

"Yeah, he did," Willow answered, her face serious.. Livvy, I'm so sorry about your dad. If I can find him, I will."

Livvy nodded. "Thank you."

"All right. Let me get started. I've never done this on Skype before, so I'm not sure what it will look like to you. Just... don't get freaked out or anything, okay?"

"We'll be fine, Willow," Baz said. She grinned again and looked down at something John couldn't see. She started chanting in some language John didn't know, and when she looked up, he saw that her eyes had gone completely black. He bit down on a curse and made himself stay silent.

On the screen, Willow's breath hitched, and she moaned softly. "...hurt..." she whimpered, in a voice like nothing John had ever heard before. "...God... so... so much... pain. Can't... no... don't... don't...no!" She wailed suddenly, and from off-screen, someone moved into view, shaking Willow hard until she gasped, "I'm okay. Buffy, stop it! I'm okay!"

The other person crouched down and revealed herself to be an attractive blonde of about the same age as Willow. "Sorry, guys," she said, sounding not at all apologetic. "I'm not letting Wills get lost in whatever they're doing to him. He's alive, at least. You know that, now."

Livvy nodded, but she had one hand pressed over her mouth. Baz rested both hands on her shoulders and licked his lips. "Yeah, we know that. Thanks, ladies."

"You're welcome. We gotta get to Wales now. Keep us posted," Buffy reached towards the screen, and the signal died. Once the screen went dark, Baz leaned down and hugged Livvy.

"He's alive, Liv," he said. "He's alive, and we'll find him."

She nodded again, but John heard the hitching breath from behind her hand and stepped forward. "Come on, Livvy. Let's get you some privacy so you can get yourself back together."

Livvy nodded again, then shook off Baz's hands. "Privacy," she repeated, her voice choked. "Fine. Everybody out."

The Web cleared, and the door closed, but not before John heard the shuddering sobs beginning. He looked at Baz, who shook his head.

"She'll come get us when she's ready," he said.

"So... that was a witch?" Moriarty asked. "A real witch. Real magic, hocus-pocus, Harry Potter witch?"

Baz gave a weak grin. "Yeah."

Moriarty shook his head, his eyes wide. "How does it work?"

"No idea," Baz said cheerfully. "And I don't want to know. She scares the crap out of me. Can we eat now?"

They walked out into the larger room, and found Sherlock, Greg and Anthea there. John looked at Sherlock, and knew that there was something wrong.

"What? What is it?" John demanded. "Sherlock?"

It was Greg who answered, and John noticed that he was carrying a manila folder. "One of those homeless kids reported in. He... found something." He hesitated, looking past John. "Where's Livvy?"

"In the Web. She won't be out for a while, I think," Baz answered. "We... got an answer, from Willow. We know that Mycroft is alive. But..." his voice trailed off, and he shook his head.

"I think we know what you're trying to say," Sherlock said softly. His voice was shaking, and John went to his lover and looked up at him.

"Sherlock?" he asked.

Sherlock didn't look at him. "Show them," he said to Greg.

Greg nodded, then looked around. "No one says anything about this to Livvy. Anything. You hear me?"

John looked around, seeing worry on Baz's face, curiosity on Moriarty's. "What is it?"

"Pictures. The bastard took pictures," Greg snarled. He opened the folder and dropped the pictures on top of the map. John picked one up, then dropped it as if he'd been burned.

Mycroft, gagged and blindfolded with silver tape wrapped around his head. He was bound, his arms pulled back so far that John felt sympathy twinges in his shoulder. His shirt had been ripped open, and red welts crossed his chest.

"They get worse," Greg said, his voice flat. "These-" he stopped, then swallowed and continued. "These were early, it looks like."

"Put them away," Sherlock growled. "Just... put the damnable things away."

John nodded and moved over, picking the photos up and shoving them back into the envelope, trying to ignore the one that had somehow landed on top - the one that showed a later pose, with Mycroft's trousers ripped open as well. He closed the folder and picked it up, looking around.

"We need to destroy these," he said softly. Sherlock looked up at the tone of his voice, and John know that Sherlock could hear the pure fury hidden in the quiet.

"I'll take them," Anthea said. "I'll burn them."

"Good," John handed the folder to her and looked around. "Now what?"

"We know where they aren't," Napoleon said. "And we've ruled out three more places. We're getting closer."

"Too slow," Sherlock muttered. "We're moving too slowly." He glanced at the map again. "The circles aren't complete," he added, sounding confused.

"What?" John asked, caught off guard by the change in subject.

"The circles. Look," he picked up a pen and drew an 'X', seemingly at random. "Center of the circle," he said, still drawing almost perfect circles, each of which included more than one of the red dots. When he was done, there were nine neat circles, each one larger than the last. Sherlock laid the pen down and stepped back, looking oddly at the map.

"Holy shit. It's fucking Dante!"

John jumped at the voice in his ear, looking up to see Baz - he hadn't even realized that the other man was standing so close behind him

"Dante?" Sherlock echoed. He looked back down at the map. "What do nine circles have to do with Dante?"

"_Inferno_?" John asked. "Sherlock, you deleted Dante's _Inferno_?"

"Wish to hell I could," Napoleon grumbled.

Baz was shaking his head, his eyes wide. "Oh, that crazy fuck. I knew he was obsessed. Oh, man..."

"Calm down, mate. Start at the beginning," Greg said firmly "Bring the rest of us up to speed."

Baz nodded, "Milverton, he loved that damned poem. He quoted it, all the fucking time. Jimmy, you remember?"

John turned to see Moriarty standing nearby, an odd look on his face. "I remember," he said softly. Too softly, and John felt the hair stand on the back of his neck.

Baz didn't appear to notice. "There's a woodcut. Dore, I think. Yeah. Shows Satan at the bottom of the ninth level of hell. Milverton has it tattooed on his back. He told me once that he was aiming to belong in each and every level of hell." Baz shuddered and looked at the map. "He's at the center. I'm sure of it."

"We need to find out what is here," Sherlock said, tapping the center of the circles. "We need to find out what it is, because _that_ is where we'll find my brother!"

"Sebastian?"

John turned at the odd tone in Moriarty's voice. As he moved, he saw the effect that it had on Baz - his eyes widened, and his entire body went rigid. He took a deep breath, and when he released it, he seemed to relax completely. Behind him, John heard Sherlock gasp, then felt him move up to stand at John's shoulder.

"Yes, James?" Baz answered.

"When did you have a chance to see Milverton's naked back, my dove?" Moriarty asked, his eyes never leaving Baz. It was as if the rest of the room had vanished, and there was no one left in the entire universe but those two.

"I told you, James. The leather club. You were in Cairo. I texted you, and you gave me permission," Baz answered. He shifted, putting his hands behind his back.

"Ah, yes. I remember." Moriarty cocked his head to one side. "Did he touch you, my dove, my Sebastian? Did he defoul what is mine?"

"No, James," Baz answered. "No one but you." He stepped closer to Moriarty, then gracefully sank to his knees. "There is no one else allowed to touch me the way you do, James."

"Glad you remember that," Moriarty murmured. He reached out and ran his fingers through Baz's hair, then smiled slightly. "Off your knees, Seb. You're making a scene."

"Oh..." Baz blinked, shook his head and looked around, then blushed furiously.

John started to speak, coughed, then started again, "You two... want some privacy?"

Moriarty looked sideways at Baz, then smiled. "For a little while. Dinner should be ready. Save some for us." He tugged Baz to his feet by his collar and dragged him off.

Greg cleared his throat. "Well, that was-"

"Too damned hot for words?" Livvy interrupted. "They're really intense when they get going. Have we made any headway?"

"We have a lead," John said. He pointed to the x at the center of the circles, watching as Livvy's eyes grew wide as she recognized the symbolism.

"Let me plug that into my system and get a search going," she said. "We should know something before the boys get back. Then we can go in and get my father. And kill the bastard who did this."

John wasn't surprised that no one objected. Nor was he surprised at the grim nods from all of the men surrounding the table.

#

"Did you leave us any dinner?"

John looked up from his notes to see Baz, obviously just out of the shower. His wet hair was combed back, and his shirt wasn't tucked unto his trousers.

"In the oven on warm," John answered. "Where's Jim?"

Baz stopped on his way to the oven and turned towards John. "That's the first time I've heard you call him by his name."

John grinned wryly, "I think it's the first time I've thought of him having a first name. Eat. As soon as you two are fed, we're having a briefing."

"Yes, sir," Baz said, turning back to the oven. His movements were off, and John watched him for a moment, his eyes narrowed.

"How badly did he mark you?" he asked quietly.

"Not terribly. He didn't work deep this time. I'm just a bit stiff, is all."

"Enough to slow you down?"

Baz turned, shaking his head. "Nope. I'm going, Doctor. I want this fuck to burn."

"I'll make that call, Colonel," John said firmly, standing up. "Show me your back."

Baz blinked, then turned and stripped his shirt off over his head, turning around so that John could see the pattern of wide, red welts. John leaned close, examining the skin.

"He used a belt?" he asked.

"Yes. The one I'm wearing."

"Right," John murmured. The welts were precisely placed, crossing each other in spots, but the skin hadn't been broken, and the bruising didn't look as if it would be too bad. There was a slight glisten to the skin, too.

"He put arnica on them once I was out of the shower," Baz added, answering the question John was about to ask. "I'm fine, Doctor. Really. Better than fine. I... kinda needed that."

"Examining my handiwork, Doctor?"

John straightened and turned, seeing Moriarty coming towards them. He nodded. "Wanted to be sure that this wouldn't slow Baz down at all."

"I did have that in mind," Moriarty admitted. "Dinner?"

"In the oven. That was really very good. We even got Sherlock to eat, and he never does when he's working." John nodded to Baz, who smiled and put his shirt back on.

"That's quite possibly the highest praise I've had for my cooking," Moriarty said with a smile. "Good. What is the plan?"

"Briefing once you eat," John answered. He fetched himself a cup of coffee, then sat down with teh two men as they started to eat. "Oh, you'll like this. The building at the center of the circles? Is owned by Al Durante."

"Not a name that I know," Moriarty admitted.

"Dante's given name was Durante degli Alighieri," John said. He smiled over his coffee cup at the look of stunned amusement on Moriarty's face. "No, I didn't know that. Nor did anyone else. We found it on Wikipedia."

"Internet saves the day," Baz mumbled around a mouthful of bread. Casually, Moriarty reached across the table and cuffed him gently.

"Knowing that, we sent Irregulars in to take a closer look. The building is an old house - one that should have been demolished. However, there are new security cameras hidden in spots around the grounds, and the locks on the windows and doors are all also new. And very good."

Moriarty was nodding. "Good signs. All of them. How do we get in?"

"They're working on a plan..."

#

"Absolutely not!"

Sherlock looked shocked, but John wasn't certain if it was because of the vehemence of the reaction, or the fact that the reaction came from three different directions. One of them, to John's surprise, was from Jim Moriarty.

"Why not?" Greg asked. "It makes sense. It fits what Sunshine over here does regularly. He usually goes haring off on his own and gets himself into trouble."

"And if it goes wrong, then it hands Milverton two hostages instead of one," Baz said. He crossed his arms and shook his head. "No. There has to be another way."

"Well, then. What do you suggest?" Greg asked. "Because we have got to get moving!"

John looked around the large table; everyone was there, focused on notes and photographs of the house. Tobe had even made an appearance, although he was giving the definite impression of hiding behind Illya. Across from Moriarty, Livvy looked down at her papers, then cocked her head to one side.

"What if he didn't go alone?" she asked.

"What are you thinking, Liv?" Moriarty asked.

"Sending you with him," she answered, then held one hand up as Baz sputtered. "No. listen to me, Baz. Uncle Lock _is_ known for haring off and doing what he thinks is the most logical course of action, even if it makes no sense to anyone else with a functional brain-"

"Livvy!"

"I love you, too, Uncle Lock," Livvy said without missing a beat, and John had to hide a smile behind a faked cough. "Now, wouldn't it be logical to trade someone that Milverton has for someone he wants to get rid of?"

Moriarty looked down at his hands, then nodded. "Then what?"

Livvy took a look breath and shrugged. "That's where I run out of ideas. There just isn't enough data! We don't know what is happening inside, or even if these plans are still current."

"Then we have to get inside," John said. "Wait..." he frowned, chasing the thought around. Then he turned to Sherlock. "Do you happen to have any house-breakers who owe you a favor?"

Sherlock blinked, then looked thoughtful. "As a matter of fact..." his voice trailed off, and he left the table and pulled his mobile out. When he came back a few minutes later, it was with a satisfied smile on his face. "Davison says he'll do it."

"Davison?" Moriarty asked. "Not Clive Davison?"

"Yes, I believe that is his name. Oh, don't tell me he's one of yours!" Sherlock looked disgusted. "That means I just gave away the plan."

"No, it means you just handed Milverton a red herring," John said soothingly, resting his hand on Sherlock's arm. "He's going to be expecting a break-in now."

"What about gas?" Owen asked. "We can flood that entire house with knockout gas."

Livvy shook her head. "Papa reacts badly to the gas we usually use. It makes him nauseous. I suppose it would be a small price to pay in order to get him out, but it could turn out badly."

John thought back to the pictures and grimaced - if Mycroft vomited while gagged, he would be dead before they could reach him. He looked over at Greg, and saw that the DI was shaking his head.

"No," John said firmly. "Not a risk we can reasonably take."

"Jim?" Napoleon spoke up, not looking up from the pen he was toying with. "Any idea if this place has the same sort of tunnel system that the other place had?"

Livvy pulled her iPad to her and started tapping. "Jim, I have the information on who owns the surrounding buildings," she said. "Did you see?"

"No. Show me?" He took the tablet from her and blinked. "These three. Those are three of the aliases that I know."

"The three mouths of the Devil," Napoleon murmured. "What would you bet that he named them Cassius, Brutus, and Judas Iscariot?"

"No bet, Napoleon," Illya muttered. "We have three attack fronts, then."

"And he has three boltholes. We need to close them off," John said. "What do we have for an assault team now that the Slayers are gone? Greg, can we count on the Met?"

Greg shook his head. "Not officially, no."

"And honestly, John, do you want idiots like Grigson involved in this?" Sherlock added.

"He's not a bad officer, Sherlock," Greg protested.

"He's not you," Sherlock answered. Greg blinked, looking surprised.

"Thank you for the compliment, Sunshine. At least, I think it was a compliment." He looked around. "All right. No Met. What do we have?"

Livvy was tapping her lip with a stylus. "Apart from the people at this table? I can call in some backup from UNIT. But it will be hard to get them in place without having them be seen. Jimmy, if you studied the plans for the other three properties, would you be able to channel Milverton for a minute?"

Moriarty nodded. "Of course," he answered. He looked down at the table again, was silent for several minutes, then nodded once more, folding his hands on the table, closing his eyes and frowning.

"Defenses, Milverton. Where are they?" Livvy asked.

Moriarty's frown deepened, and when he spoke, his voice was odd, somehow deeper. The accent was different, too, and John glanced at Sherlock to see his lover staring with open fascination.

"All three have cameras," Moriarty said in that strange voice. "I have a man monitoring each house at all times. They're abandoned, and likely to attract homeless and harlots."

"And what do you do if someone does kip there?" Greg asked.

"Nothing, unless they stay on. A night is no problem. No one explores the whole house in a night."

"And the tunnels? Where are your tunnels, Milverton?" Livvy asked, her voice low and firm.

There was a momentary hush before Moriarty started speaking again. "Cassius is in the basement, the southeast corner. Brutus is in the shed behind the house proper. The door is padlocked, but that's a sham - the real lock is on the inside. Judas is... Judas is..." he groaned and push his head down on his still-folded hands. "Sorry. Lost it. I can't see where Judas is."

"You did fine, Jimmy," Baz said softly, putting his arm around Moriarty's shoulders.

"What the hell was that?" Greg demanded.

"Mimicry," Sherlock murmured. "And.. deduction from the inside out. You study your people, don't you? You know how each of them thinks, how they react, what they will do when faced with any kind of stimulus. And Milverton did the unexpected. That's why you were so shocked when he turned on you."

Moriarty had raised his head to look at Sherlock. "I only do it with the people in the upper echelon. Otherwise, I'd get nothing else done. It takes time to get far enough into their heads to know what they'll do."

Sherlock nodded. "Of course, of course. And it's exhausting, too, I imagine. All those messy emotions, all the random thoughts. How do you sift through them all and find the essential core?"

Moriarty practically beamed. "I knew you'd understand. I'll show you, if you like. Later."

"Mutual admiration society meeting is down the hall, gentlemen," Napoleon said, making Moriarty laugh. "Right. We know where two of the three tunnels are, roughly. What do we do with the third, and the unknown tunnel?"

"Blow it up?" Illya said brightly. It took John a moment to realize that no one was laughing.

"Seriously?" John asked. "Blow the place up?"

"I can build a device that they'd never detect, that would bring down the entire building if it was disturbed, and not damage the houses on either side," Illya answered. From what John remembered of his uncle Mark's stories, Illya could do just that. He nodded.

"Sounds like a plan. When?"

"I'll need to call the Brig," Livvy said, her head cocked to one side. "See what we can have and how soon. Uncle Lusha? How soon can you have that device?"

"An hour, more or less. Sherlock, would you care to help?" Illya asked. Sherlock suddenly looked like someone had given him everything he'd ever wanted for Christmas, wrapped up and presented on the back of a sparkling unicorn pony. John had to look away to keep from giggling.

"All right. Let's get started-" Livvy started to rise when Sherlock's mobile rang.

#

Livvy sat down hard, and Sherlock pulled his mobile out of his pocket and laid it on the table.

"The number is blocked," he murmured.

"Speaker," Livvy said, equally softly.

Sherlock nodded and tapped the phone. Almost immediately, they heard laughter, and a man's voice said, "Well, Mister Holmes. This is a treat."

John looked sharply at Moriarty - the voice coming from the mobile had the same strange intonations that Moriarty had just been mimicking. Moriarty nodded. Milverton.

"Am I supposed to know who you are?" Sherlock said. He sounded bored, but John could see his hands, clenched into fists under the table.

"You know exactly who I am, Mister Holmes," Milverton answered. "Is my former employer there?"

Livvy shook her head, hard. Sherlock nodded. "No, he isn't. You don't think we'd let a criminal genius roam freely, do you?"

"Pity. I do hope he's accessible. Because we're going to have a little trade, Mister Holmes. In one hour, you and your doctor will bring James Moriarty to me, at the address you were going to attempt to break in to. Once you deliver him to me, then I, out of the goodness of my heart, will render unto Holmes what is Holmes. Or what was Holmes. He's been wonderfully fun, but there is only so much you can do before they go catatonic on you."

John heard a growl from somewhere around the table, but wasn't at all certain where it originated.

"Oh, we're not alone?" Milverton asked.

"I'm here," John answered quickly.

"Is that the good Doctor? Good. You might want to bring your medical bag, Doctor. I think the elder Holmes is going to need a few plasters."

"I'll also want any photographs or videos that you took of my brother, Milverton," Sherlock snapped. "Or there is no deal."

"Oh, now where is the fun in that?" Milverton asked with a laugh. "One hour, Mister Holmes." There was a click, and the mobile went dead.

"Do it."

Every head at the table turned to look at Moriarty, who was staring down at his own hands. "Do it," he repeated. "Give me to Milverton. Get your brother out of there. Then... you'll have time. If you're inclined to come in after me." He looked up. "Honestly, I wouldn't blame you if you didn't."

"No!" The word almost exploded from Baz, and he got to his feet so fast that hsi chair fell over and clattered to the floor. "We're not giving you over to him. He won't play with you, Jimmy, he'll kill you right out."

"And there's no guarantee he'll honor his side of the bargain," Livvy added. "Or that anyone will walk out of there alive. If he's taken over your network, then the last thing he will want to do is leave any of the men who could defeat him alive. No, we'll find another way."

"Or we'll use it, to our advantage," John said quietly. He smiled, nodding. "Yeah, we can use it to our advantage. Livvy, make your calls. Doctor Kuryakin, what can you do in half an hour?"

#

An hour later, a black sedan pulled up in front of an old, seemingly abandoned house. In the back, John licked his lips and glanced at their driver.

"Everything is in place?" he asked, then mentally kicked himself. He'd already asked the same question twice. In the front seat, Napoleon smiled into his mirror.

"Yes, sir," he answered. "We'll move on your mark."

John nodded and turned towards Sherlock and Moriarty, who were sitting next to him. Sherlock looked back, his face as still as a statue's. Next to him, Moriarty looked pensive. No, that wasn't right, John corrected. He looked positively green.

"Jim?"

Moriarty looked up. He smiled slightly and nodded. "I'm trying to look nervous. How am I doing?"

"That's the most convincing act I've seen in ages, if you're just trying to look nervous," John teased gently, and got a smile in return. The smile faded quickly, and Moriarty met John's eyes.

"Why, Captain Doctor John Watson?" he said.

It didn't take a brain surgeon, or even Sherlock, to know what Moriarty meant. John patted Moriarty's arm and repeated something that he'd been told once before. "Because you, James Moriarty, are a great man. And maybe someday, you'll be a good one. I'd like to see it happen."

"If you decide to stay, I'm quite certain that my brother will find a place for you inside his department," Sherlock added. He looked across the car, then nodded. "It's time. John?"

John reached into his pocket and pulled out Greg's handcuffs, a pair that had been specially altered by Tobe for the occasion. "This is the part I don't like," he muttered as he cuffed Moriarty's hands behind his back.

"I'll be fine," Moriarty said. "Do you always worry about people like this?"

"Of course he does," Sherlock answered. "He's John Watson. That's what he does." He looked back at John and smiled, then let his face go slack and opened the car door.

"Come along, Doctor Moriarty. We have an appointment," he called over his shoulder.

#

They were met at the door, and the man looked at the three of them, nodded once, then stepped aside to let them enter.

"Welcome, Mister Holmes, Doctor Watson," he said as the door closed.

"Mister Milverton. Opening your own doors?" Sherlock said, his contempt very obvious. John saw movement out of the corner of his eye, and turned to see two more men entering the foyer.

"Search them," Milverton said sharply. He stepped back, and the two men moved in. John let one of them pat him down, nodding as they relieved him of his gun, greatly encouraged that Jim had been right when he'd channeled Milverton once more in the car on the way here. Given that, John was fairly certain that he knew what to expect.

Assuming, of course, that Milverton didn't manage to surprise them all again.

"Enough of this, Milverton. You have what you want," Sherlock snapped, and he shoved Moriarty towards Milverton, hard enough that Moriarty stumbled and staggered to keep from falling. "Where is my brother?"

"Right this way, Mister Holmes," Milverton said with a smile. He reached out and grabbed Moriarty by the collar and shoved him before them as they walked towards the back of the house.

"You have a hearing aid, Doctor?" Milverton asked over his shoulder.

"Too close to a mortar in Afghanistan," John answered. "Lost most of the hearing in that ear."

In truth, the hearing aid was a tiny microphone and receiver - every word said was being relayed back to Livvy at the Hub, as well as to Napoleon, to Owen, who was waiting with a UNIT medical team, and to Baz, waiting to lead one of two UNIT strike teams into the tunnels.

"A pity, Doctor," Milverton said smoothly. He reached around Moriarty and opened a door, revealing what must once have been a formal dining room. There was no furniture, save only a single chair in the middle of the empty space. Bound to that chair, and seemingly unconscious, was Mycroft, bloody, beaten, and clad only in the rags of what had once been his clothing.

This was the moment that John had been dreading - was Sherlock going to be able to maintain his control and his temper when faced with the actuality of what had happened? He looked up, and saw Sherlock blink, blink again, then close his eyes and swallow. When he reopened his eyes, there was a hardness there. A coldness that made John want to be elsewhere when the control finally was let loose.

"Doctor, you're welcome to examine him," Milverton said softly. John heard him, but ignored the words that were coming from the side on which he was supposed to be deaf. After a moment, Sherlock nudged him.

"He said you can go examine him, John," Sherlock repeated. John looked startled, then nodded.

"Right. Sorry," he said quickly as he stepped forward. Almost time... almost time...

He moved slowly up to Mycroft's side, cursing at the sight of that damned silver tape. It was going to be impossible to get it out of Mycroft's hair without shaving him near-bald, and John didn't want to think about getting it off his eyes. His foot hit a squeaky board, and John was shocked to see Mycroft flinch at the sound. He was awake.

"It's all right, Mycroft," he said softly, his hands hovering over Mycroft's skin, cataloging the injuries, drawing up a mental tally of every single abrasion, cut, bruise and scrape so that later, when he got the chance, he could replicate every single one on the body of the man who stood gloating behind him. "It's John. It's over, Mycroft."

"Yes. Yes, I do think it is over," Milverton said clearly. John straightened and turned, and saw the gun.

Jim had called it, right to the moment. And Jim was right now behind Milverton, slowly working his way out of the doctored handcuffs. He smiled at John, showed him the open cuffs, then pulled of the two guns that no one had thought to check to see if he was carrying.

"Yes, Charles, it is over," Moriarty crooned, stepping forward and pushing both barrels into the sides of Milverton's neck. "Drop the gun."

As Milverton slowly lowered his arm, John moved forward, watching carefully until he was close enough to take the gun. He stepped back, then touched the hearing aid with one finger.

"Execute," he said clearly. And all hell broke loose.

#

There was a distant roar that John felt in his bones, and the boarded-over windows shook and rattled with the concussion from Illya's explosives. John started hearing the rattle of gunfire through the hearing aid, and he nodded.

"It's started. Keep your guard up," he said. "Sherlock, come away from the door."

"There's a knife in my pocket," Moriarty said. "Left hand. Get him loose."

Sherlock nodded, coming over behind Jim, reaching into his jacket pocket and coming out with a folding knife. He gave Milverton a wide berth and was moving towards Mycroft when the door burst open. John turned and fired without hesitation, and the first man into the room dropped like a stone, but there were more behind him. As soon as they saw their partner go down, they opened fire. John saw Jim move, spinning Milverton and using the larger man as a shield as he returned fire with one of his two weapons; one of the men trying to get into the room fell. John backed up a step and continued firing, seeing another man fall. Then another. Then...

"Ah!"

"Sherlock!" John couldn't turn, couldn't look to see how badly Sherlock was hurt. He moved to the side, trying to act as a shield, hearing bullets whistling past his ears. Something slammed into his chest, punching into the bulletproof vest he was wearing knocking the breath out of him and driving him back. He'd forgotten how much that _hurt_.

"We are under fire! Repeat, we are under heavy fire. We have casualties!" he barked, suddenly back in Kabul. He shook his head to clear it, to bring himself back to the here and now. "Sherlock?"

"I'm all right!" Sherlock called back. "John, the fireplace!"

John heard the creak, heard the hidden doorway open. Then he heard the most welcome sound - Baz's voice, roaring "Get down!"

John dropped back, into the precious cover created by the opened, faux front of the fireplace. He saw Jim pull Milverton down onto the floor, saw Sherlock, one arm hanging limp at his side, trying to drag the chair out of the line of fire. Saw the crimson explosion in Mycroft's chest...

"Fuck!" John fired at the men still trying to drive their way in through the open door, There were only two left, only two... Glancing to the side, he saw Milverton pull something from his coat and jab backwards. Jim yowled in pain, rolling away from the now blood-stained blade that Milverton dropped as he scrambled back to his feet. He scooped up one of Jim's discarded guns and fired as he ran towards the open fireplace. There was a gasp, one that sounded almost surprised. Then a dull thud, and John knew...

There was a choice, and it was no choice at all - John fired twice, taking out the last two men in the doorway, then twisted around the fireplace and fired down the tunnel, trying hard to ignore the crumpled body that lay across the threshold. And heard the click of the hammer driving home on an empty clip.

"Fuck," he breathed, backing up. His chest was starting to hurt like a wicked bitch, and...

"House is secure." Napoleon's voice crackled in his right ear. "Repeat. The house is secure. How many casualties?"

"Three!" John barked. Most serious patient first - he forced himself to let Milverton go, let the remains of Baz's team take him. He holstered his gun and moved to Mycroft's side, examining the wound with the detachment of an combat surgeon. "And one fatality. Owen, get your ass in here! Lung shot, probably collapsed..." he continued his litany of Mycroft's visible injuries, working on stripping away enough of the tape so that Mycroft could breath freely.

Ignoring as best he could the painful sounds of Jim, stumbling into the tunnel, calling Sebastian's name. Then, silence, broken only by a harsh, gut-wrenching sound, almost as if someone was trying to scream through sobs and clenched teeth. John looked at Sherlock, and was surprised to see tears in his eyes. He shook his head. John nodded, and went back to work.

#

From the minute Owen charged into the room, he took over, pushing John out of the way and pulling out heavy shears that he used to cut the rest of the ropes and free Mycroft. He and the UNIT medics quickly had Mycroft on a gurney and moving. Another medic was helping Sherlock remove his coat - the argument over actually _cutting_ the coat had been brief and explosive, and John could have told the medic not to bother. But he was busy.

He crouched down across the tunnel from Jim, who had put his back against the wall, drawn Baz's body across his leg, and snarled at anyone who tried to come close. Everyone but John. John, he was ignoring with an almost single-minded intensity.

"Jim, let me see how badly you're hurt," John repeated.

This time, Jim shook his head. "I don't care how badly I'm hurt," he said. He ran his fingers over Baz's cheek, avoiding the neat hole underneath his left eye. "It's so small. How could something so small take him away?" He shook his head, and his voice wobbled when he continued, "I should... I should have let you keep him. I wouldn't have him, but he'd be alive. You promised me that. He'd have been alive. Now..." He took a long breath, and his face crumpled. John took a chance and moved forward... and Jim grabbed onto him and held on, his face buried in John's shoulder. John wrapped his arms around Moriarty, pushing away the incredulity that this was even happening, and tried to give the man what he needed. Movement at the tunnel mouth, and John looked up to see Sherlock, his arm roughly bandaged. He nodded; Sherlock nodded in return and turned away.

"John!"

It was Owen, and from the sounds of it, he was coming in at a run. He skidding into view and stopped, his eyes widening as he saw the body on the ground. "Oh, fuck," he breathed, then pulled his professional veil into place and shook his head. "We need to move, John. I've got him stable, but we need to get him into surgery. He's a rare, though, and St. Bart's has next to no AB negative. Tell me you've got blood banked for him at the Hub?"

"What?" John blinked, trying to change tracks. "I..."

"We do, but not much. Tell Owen I'm a universal donor and so is Uncle Lock. I'll meet you at St. Bart's." Livvy's voice was clear in John's ear, and he relayed the message.

"Right. We're going ahead then," Owen answered, looking up at Sherlock. "Legally, I can't take your blood. Morally, I'll take anything you can give. Let's go."

"Send another medic up, Owen. Jim's hurt -" John started to say. Then Jim went limp in his arms. Cursing, John fumbled at Jim's throat, finding a weak pulse.

"We need another gurney! Now!"

#

The ride to the hospital was short. Which was good for the patients, but not long enough for John to chase down the thoughts that were jabbing at him. Something wasn't right, and he didn't have the time or the energy to think. Jim had taken the knife in the side, a long slash that thankfully hadn't been deep. And he was a common bloodtype, thankfully. He was taken into surgery with the assurance that he'd be perfectly fine in a few hours. By the time they reached St. Bart's, Owen already had Mycroft prepped for surgery, and was waiting on the blood from the Hub, which would arrive with Livvy...

Livvy...

Blood...

_Sherlock!_

Christ! John sat down hard in the uncomfortable hospital chair, his mind reeling. Oh, Sherlock!

Sherlock appeared in the doorway, as if he was a particularly annoying genii summoned by John's thoughts. "Livvy is here," he said. "They're taking blood from her now. Owen's started the surgery. It will be... hours yet, before we know anything. I've called Mummy. She'll be here in an hour."

John nodded slowly, staring at the floor. Why hadn't he seen it before? How could he have missed something so obvious? Mentally, he replayed bits and pieces of conversations that he'd heard over the past few months.

_Not possible. There is no way._

_There is a way. You know there's a way._

_No, I don't think so. Not without setting off far too many alarms. A strike at both of us, I would think._

_Daddy said you were a fine driver._

"John?"

John looked up, met Sherlock's eyes. "When were you going to tell me?"

Sherlock's lips twitched slightly. "You put it together."

"I did. But when were you going to tellme that Olivia is _your_ daughter?"

#

Sherlock sat down next to John, most pointedly not looking at him. "I was going to tell you," he said eventually. "After you met Olivia. But there never seemed to be the right time-"

"Right, I can see how 'my niece is actually my daughter' would be hard to work into a conversation," John said amiably. He glanced at Sherlock, who smiled. "So, if you don't want to tell me-"

"Of course I want to tell you," Sherlock interrupted. He looked at John and shook his head. "Oh, nothing like that. Nothing sordid, John. Just... there needs to be more explanation than just... how. You need to know why."

"You haven't told him yet?"

John sat up and turned to the door, to see Greg Lestrade standing there, leaning against the doorsill.

"You know?" Sherlock asked. "How do you know?"

"Course I know. My told me. Told me why, too," Greg said. He shrugged. "I can keep a secret, Sherlock. Want privacy?"

"Please," John asked. Greg nodded and turned around, closing the door behind him.

Sherlock was silent for a moment, then nodded. "What do you know about typhoid, John?"

John let out a long breath. "Probably more than you think. It's endemic in Afghanistan."

"So you know what happens if it goes untreated for too long?" Sherlock asked.

"Most of the time, death," John answered, tipping his head back and fighting back the yawn. His chest hurt from the impact of the bullet, and he was tired to the bone. "Ah... let me think. Haemorrhaging, intestinal performation, kidney failure, test-" he stopped, raising his head and looking at Sherlock. "Testicular atrophy."

Sherlock nodded, sober as a judge. "My father worked for the government. I suppose that isn't a surprise. He did... something with foreign affairs. I've never known exactly what. He died when I was five. But we traveled with him, Mummy, Mycroft and I. What better cover could he have had? To all appearances, he was a businessman, traveling with his family. We were in Sri Lanka, and we were going, by ship, to Singapore. Somehow, Mycroft was infected with typhoid. He was quarantined, and Mummy and I were sent away. The last time I saw my father, he told me that he was sending Mummy and me home, and he promised that he would bring Mycroft home once he was well. When we reached Singapore, Mummy and I were put immediately on an airplane and sent back to England.

"Mycroft came home some three months later. Father never did." Sherlock shifted in his chair, pulling his legs up to his chest. As he went to wrap his arms around his knees, he winced.

"Your arm? You did have it looked at, didn't you?" John asked.

"While I was giving blood. It was a deep graze. Fourteen stitches," Sherlock answered dismissively. "And you? Has anyone looked at your chest?"

"Just bruising. Maybe a cracked rib, but there isn't much they can do for it," John said. He yawned and shook his head. "Finish telling me."

"Oh, yes. We didn't know anything about the extent of the damage until Mycroft married. He was twenty-one."

"You know, no one has mentioned Olivia's mother to me. At all."

Sherlock smiled slightly. "Lenore. Lenore Addington. She was twenty when she married my brother, and she was brilliant. Brilliant and beautiful. You'd have liked her. Mycroft adored her."

"Sounds like you did, too," John added.

"I was fourteen, dealing with a world full of idiots who didn't want to see that I was smarter than they were. Lenore... she encouraged me. Pushed when I needed pushing. She loved it when I made deductions." Sherlock fell silent, a thoughtful look on her face. "She was like you, John. She cared for everyone." He fell silent again, then sighed. "When she didn't get pregnant right off, the society wags began to talk. After a year, she and Mycroft started seeing specialists. They wanted a family, you see. "

"And because Mycroft contract typhoid before he went through puberty, I imagine that there was no obvious sign of anything wrong," John added.

Sherlock nodded again. "The specialists discovered what you already know - that Mycroft was sterile. Naturally, we kept it a secret, but Lenore was heartbroken. She wanted a family. They considered adoption, but that would have led to questions, and really, bringing a child into our family who wasn't-"

"It would have been cruel," John finished. "So you... what? Volunteered?"

Sherlock looked down, then looked away. To John's surprise, when he looked back, he was blushing. "I really did like Lenore," he said quietly. "I wanted... I don't know. To make her happy?

"At first, she and Mycroft refused. It smacked too much of incest. But once the offer is made, it can't be unmade and... Lenore. I was fifteen when we-" he stopped and shook his head. "Lenore was pregnant almost immediately. And I discovered that I really did not fancy girls."

"Sherlock," John breathed his lover's name softly. "That is the most beautiful thing I think you have ever done. Have I told you today how much I love you?"

Sherlock went pinker still. "Today? No."

"Probably now even more than I did before. You are magnificent," John said fervently. "I assume Olivia knows? She must. She called you Daddy."

"She did?" Sherlock looked stunned. "When?"

"In the car on the way to Cardiff. She was distracted... oh. Oh, is that why...?"

Sherlock rose and moved away, shaking his head. "I almost killed her. My daughter, and I almost killed her, because I was stupid. I am never stupid. Ever. But this... this one time..." He stopped and jammed his hands into his pockets, wincing at the movement. John got up and went to his side.

"She forgave you that, Sherlock. Time you forgave yourself."

"Past time."

Both men turned towards the door, to see Livvy standing there, looking pale. "Papa Greg let me in. He figured it didn't matter, since you were talking about me. So, John, now you know. Livvy has two daddies. Well..." she frowned and laughed. "Four, now. What hasn't he told you?"

John felt a surge of pride as he realized he was one of the four, then asked, "What happened to your mother?"

Livvy took a long breath. "Breast cancer. I was four."

"We had been talking about another child. In vitro fertilization, this time," Sherlock said softly. "Lenore was worried about Rh incompatibility, so she went to her doctor for a routine examination. They found the tumors. She was gone within the year. Shortly after she died was when I met Victor."

John narrowed his eyes and nodded once, sharply. Sherlock had told him about his former lover, who had been the one to introduce him to cocaine. He hadn't known, though, that Sherlock had been in mourning when it had happened.

"Anything else?" Livvy asked. "If you're interested, Jimmy is out of surgery. He'll be fine."

Sherlock straightened and smiled slightly. "Good."

"And Mycroft?" John asked.

"No word yet. And I'm waiting for a report from UNIT on Milverton-" Livvy stopped and pulled her buzzing mobile out of her pocket. "Yes? Of course, I'll be right there." She put the mobile back into her pocket. "The Brig is here. And I'm not quite certain why. I'll be back." She hesitated, then closed the distance between them, going first to Sherlock and kissing him on the cheek. "I love you, Daddy," she said softly. Then she turned to John and smiled. "I have no idea what I should be calling you."

"You can stay with Uncle John, if you like," John said with a smile. She nodded and kissed him, too.

"Love you, Uncle John. I'll be back."

She slipped out of the room, and John looked up at Sherlock. "You have a wonderful daughter," he said.

"I do, don't I?" Sherlock answered. "Shall we?"

"Fine. Coffee?"

"Excellent idea, Doctor."

They emerged from the waiting room just in time to hear Livvy's raised voice, strident in her disbelief, "What do you mean _he got away_?"

John forced himself not to break into a run, but he did speed up, hurrying around the corner and almost running into Napoleon, who was standing with his arms folded over his chest, watching. What he was watching was obvious - Olivia, her outrage obvious, facing down a man taller, broader and far older than she, who leaned heavily on a walking stick, and who was oddly familiar to John. "Tell me again how your trained elite troops managed to let one man go through them like a sharp knife through paper?" she demanded.

"You don't understand-" the older man started to say.

"Of course I don't understand! You had how many men, fully armed and armored, and somehow they managed to let one man with a handgun escape! Now he's out there, and God alone knows how we're going to find him!"

The older man drew himself up, and John recognized him at last.

"Oh, no," he murmured. "Sherlock, get Livvy."

"Why? She's right-"

"Just. Get. Livvy," John repeated. Sherlock looked startled, then moved, swooping in in a swirl of coat and scarf. He smiled pleasantly, nodded at the old soldier, grabbed Livvy about the shoulders, and dragged her off. John heard her protests start as Sherlock bundled her down the hall. As soon they were out of sight, John approached and snapped a sharp salute. The older man returned the salute briskly.

"Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart," John said. "Caption Doctor John Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers."

"Captain," the Brigadier nodded. "Wish I could said it was a pleasure. Damned fools."

"Which, Sir?"

"The damned fools who were supposed to be guarding that house. This never would have happened on my watch," he said, then snorted. "Of course, on my watch, it would have been Cybermen or Sontarans, not something as mundane as a kidnapping."

"Cybermen?" John repeated. He glanced over his shoulder at Napoleon, who nodded. "Cybermen?"

"The Captain was still in Afghanistan during Canary Wharf, Sir Alistair," Napoleon volunteered.

"Ah, so you don't know. Read the records, my boy. They didn't tell you everything," the Brigadier said.

"They never do," John answered, and got a laugh from both men.

"Quite right, quite right."

"Cybermen, though. That... I know that from the telly. When I was a boy..."

"Cover story," the Brigadier said quickly. "If everyone thinks that it is a television fantasy, no one goes looking for the truth. Torchwood did a bang-up job on that."

John was entirely too tired to boggle. But he managed it somehow. "Then..._he's_ real."

"Of course, my boy. He's as real as you are."

John nodded, licking his lips and looking around. He looked up and said sourly, "Next you're going to tell me that my sister lied about Father Christmas, aren't you?"

The Brigadier looked at him, then smiled.. "It's been a busy few days, hasn't it, John?" he said gently.

"You can tell?" John asked.

"You have the look of a man who has seen entirely too many things that challenge his sense of what is right with the universe," the Brigadier answered. "I used to see that look quite often. In my own mirror, for one. Now, let me explain to you, and you can tell the young lady once she's calmed down."

"You have to excuse her," John said. "She's been in a hard position the past couple of days."

"Given what I know of the situation, I was expecting worse," the Brigadier admitted. "She's positively restrained, all things considered. I can't even imagine how my own daughter would have reacted. Now, in a nutshell, the young idiot who was commanding the team decided that your young lady, being a very young lady, could not possibly know what she was talking about, and so ignored everything he was told about possible threat. He also dismissed what he was told by your American operative. He was therefore caught completely off-guard when that monster came storming up the tunnel. He, by the way, was the first to fall."

John winced, "How many casualties?"

"Five, counting the damned fool of a commander. The bastard was a damned good shot." the Brigadier looked past John, and he turned to see Sherlock and a much more sedate Livvy coming back towards them.

"Sir Alistair," she said, clasping her hands behind her back. "I... I must apologize. That was uncalled for. You were so kind in arranging for help for us, and it was none of it your fault-"

"Nor was it yours, Miss Holmes," the Brigadier said, his voice warm. "The fault lies squarely with a damned fool who decided that youth and beauty couldn't possibly also possess a fierce intelligence. A lesson he learned to his sorrow."

Livvy blinked, shocked. "He's dead?"

"To my sorrow. I would have greatly enjoying putting him into his place. But it appears that is a job for the Creator. Now, I should be getting back. Please do call on me if there is any further need?"

"We will, Sir Alistair. Thank you," Sherlock answered.

The Brigadier smiled and nodded. "My regards to your lovely mother, Sherlock."

"She'll be here in less than an hour, if you care to wait," Sherlock volunteered.

"Tempting, but I must get back." He nodded once more, then turned and walked slowly down the corridor, a military procession of one.

"You knew who he was?" Napoleon asked from behind John.

"He addressed the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers before we shipped out to Afghanistan," John answered. "Extraordinary man."

"He is that," Napoleon agreed. "Would you mind, John, if I returned to the Hub?"

"No, of course not," John answered, turning. "Good Lord, Napoleon, what time is it?"

"You don't want to know. You should get some sleep, if you can." Napoleon patted him on the shoulder and followed the Brigadier. When he was gone, John joined Sherlock and Livvy.

"What do you two say to finding Greg and getting some coffee? It's going to be a long night."

#

"Excuse me?"

John looked up to see one of the nurses standing in the doorway of the tiny waiting room that they had commandeered. She smiled slightly, her eyes flickering over to where Sherlock lay stretched out on the floor, seemingly asleep. John sighed inwardly - Sherlock must have been pestering the nurses again.

"Excuse me," she repeated. "But Mr. Moriarty is awake, and he's asking for Doctor Watson?"

"Doctor Moriarty," Sherlock said, not opening his eyes.

"Oh. It didn't say on his chart," the nurse answered. "I'll change that. Is he a medical doctor?"

"No. Theoretical mathematics," Sherlock answered as he sat up. "John?"

"You stay," John said. "We should hear about Mycroft soon, I think." He glanced over to where Livvy dozed in her chair, her head resting on Greg Lestrade's shoulder. On Greg's other side, intent on the lace-work in her hands, was Mummy Holmes. She looked up, nodded, then looked back down.

Sherlock followed John's gaze, then nodded soberly and lay back down, folding his hands under his chin - for all John knew, this time, he really _was_ praying. Not sure if he was amused or disturbed by the thought, John followed the nurse out of the room and down the hall.

"In here. Please try not to get him agitated?" she said as she opened a door. John nodded and walked inside, letting the door close behind him. There was a single bed in the room, and the occupant glanced at him, then looked away.

"Why am I still alive?" he asked.

"Because... if I let you die, Livvy would have strangled me?" John answered immediately. Then he thought of another reason. "And because you're probably the only person who can find Milverton now."

Moriarty turned and stared at him. "He got away?"

"Don't you start!" John said firmly. "Livvy ranted enough for the both of you when she found out."

Moriarty sniffed and turned back to the window. Outside, John could see the first hints of dawn. "Sherlock could find him," Moriarty said softly. "You don't need me."

"Probably, yes. Sherlock could find him," John agreed. "But he'd have to take apart the entire criminal network that you built in order to do it. Which would take the entire department, and years. You... I imagine you could find him inside a month."

Moriarty's lips twitched. "You have a lot of faith in me."

"I'm not the only one," John said, coming over to sit in the chair next to the bed. "Livvy says it will take you two weeks. Sherlock thinks three, but only because you need to recover."

Moriarty looked at him again, and John was relieved to see humor in his eyes. "Are you taking bets on me?" he demanded.

"We thought about it," John said, completely dead-pan. "But then we decided that whoever won, you'd want a cut, so we settled on whoever wins, buys you dinner."

"What, no victory sex?"

John laughed. "Three out of the five of us are either engaged to be married or will be soon," he pointed out. "The other two are women."

Moriarty frowned. "Mycroft's assistant?"

"No. Livvy's grandmother."

"Livvy's..." Moriarty started to repeat, then stopped and started to giggle. "Sherlock's _mother_? Oh... oh... damn it, Doctor. Don't make me laugh! That hurts!"

John grinned. "All right, Jim. I'll let you get some sleep."

"I've been sleeping," Moriarty said. "Have you heard...?"

"Nothing yet," John answered quickly. "Soon, I think. This kind of surgery can take six hours or more, depending on the level of damage, whether or not they have to open his chest..." He stopped and closed his eyes for a moment. A warm weight on his hand made him open his eyes, and he saw Moriarty's hand resting on top of his.

"Go on, Doctor. Go be with your family," Jim said softly. "I'm going to watch the sun rise."

John smiled and slipped his hand out from underneath Moriarty's, nodded his goodbye, and left. Just outside the door, he found Greg waiting for him.

"He's out of surgery."

They hurried back to the waiting room to find Owen leaning against the wall. He smiled wanly as they came inside.

"Good. I'll say this once, then I'm going to go get some sleep," he said. He glanced around to where Livvy was sitting next to her grandmother. "He'll be fine, Livvy. He's got a long road ahead of him to recover, but he will be fine."

Livvy gave a sigh that sounded closer to a sob, then covered her mouth with her hand. Sherlock rested his hand on her shoulder and nodded. "And?" he prompted.

"And... he's going to need a lot of help," Owen answered, his voice low. "We... ran the usual battery of tests for an assault victim."

"Oh, God," Greg breathed. John felt a surge of pure rage, and stepped on it, hard. Not the time or place, yet he felt the swell of anger building in the room. Sherlock had gone steely cold, and both Livvy and her grandmother had straightened in their chairs. Crazily, John remembered Jim's comment on the female of the species...

"The rape kit came back negative," Owen answered, and the heat flowed out of the room. "From the patterns of bruising, I'd say he was assaulted, but he was not raped. We'll have to wait until he's conscious and can answer questions to find out what did happen. Which will take a few days - he has a breathing tube right now."

"And the prognosis?" Mrs. Holmes asked.

Owen screwed up his face and shrugged. "He'll be in critical care for a day or two, until he's stable." he offered. "We want him on his feet as soon as possible. He has to get up and move. If he behaves and does what his doctor tells him to? He should be out of the hospital in a week to ten days. Recovery after that? Depends on him."

"When can we see him?" Greg asked.

"He's still in recovery. Once he's out, you can go in and sit with him, but he'll be sedated, and will be for a while," Owen answered.

Greg nodded and walked across the room to Mrs. Holmes. "Violet?" he asked, and offered his arm. "I think it is time for breakfast. Don't you?"

"Thank you, Gregory," she said, rising gracefully and taking his arm. She turned. "Sherlock?"

"In a moment, Mummy," Sherlock answered. She nodded and held her hand out to Livvy. "Come along, dear."

"Yes, Grandmother," Livvy said. The three of them left, and Sherlock came over to stand with John. Owen looked at the two of them, then stepped out of the room and closed the door.

"Sherlock?" John said softly.

"He'll be fine," Sherlock said, not looking at John. "And... what did Jim say?"

"That I shouldn't make him laugh," John answered.

Sherlock turned, staring in surprise at John, then smiled. "John Watson. I do love you, Doctor."

"Love you, too. Let's go get something to eat. I'm starving."

#

They ate breakfast as the sun rose, then returned to the waiting room. Livvy went to check on Moriarty, and returned to tell them that he was asleep, and she hadn't wanted to wake him. At promptly eight o'clock, John's mobile rang.

"Good morning," Napoleon sounded far too cheerful on the other end. "Any news?"

"All of it good," John answered, relaying with Owen told them. "He'll be in a room soon, in critical care. Once I know more, I'll let you know."

"Good. We have a lot of nervous people here. And Jim?"

"He's hurting," John said after a moment. "And I'm not sure what he'll do now."

"I understand. Illya and I will stop in later. We'll do what we can. Oh, and I took the liberty of calling your Mrs. Hudson. She'll be bringing you, Sherlock and Livvy each a change of clothes."

"Good. Thank you," John said, and put his mobile away. He rubbed his face, then looked up at a familiar footstep. Molly Hooper stood in the doorway, a file in her hands.

"Molly? What are you doing here?"

She smiled slightly, looking around. "Where's Sherlock?"

"Went off to get more coffee with his mother, I think."

Molly nodded, then looked down at her file. "I have a Sebastian Moran downstairs. And... his next of kin is listed as James Moriarty. That isn't right, is it?"

John nodded slowly. "It is," he said. "If you have anything that needs to be signed, I can handle it. You don't have to see him."

"You mean he's here?" Molly gasped. She looked over her shoulder, as if she expected Jim to jump out at her. "What is he doing here?"

"He helped up to save Sherlock's brother's life last night," John said slowly. "At the risk of his own life, I might add. He took a knife to the side, ended up with over fifty stitches."

"He's lying to you," Molly said, her voice shaking slightly.

"He isn't, Molly," Sherlock said.

Molly squeaked and jumped as Sherlock came up behind her. "He isn't lying. Not this time."

She looked up at him, then back at John. "You're sure?"

"You don't have to see him, Molly," John repeated. "I'll handle it."

"All right. I just... I don't want him to hurt you again." She hugged the file to her chest. "I don't want him to hurt anyone again."

"He's the one hurting now, Molly," John said. "Sebastian was his lover. And my friend. So... do right by him?"

Molly sniffed and gave him a reproachful look. "As if you had to ask that. I _am_ a professional, Doctor Watson."

John smiled slightly. "Sorry."

"It's all right. You look like you've been awake far too long." She turned back to Sherlock. "And your brother?"

"They just took him to critical care," Sherlock answered. He looked at John, "Mummy, Livvy and Greg have gone on ahead. I came to get you."

"Thanks." John got slowly to his feet and fought back a yawn. Molly smiled at him as he passed, turning to go back to the morgue. John fell in next to Sherlock as they walked silently through the halls. They turned a corner, and nearly ran down Livvy, who was coming towards them.

"There you are!" she gasped. "John, have you heard anything about Jimmy being moved?"

"No," John answered, trying to make sense through a haze of exhaustion. "No one's told me anything. Why?"

"Because his room is empty. He's gone!"

#

Checking in with the nurses, and giving Livvy ten minutes with the hospital surveillance systems, showed what John suspected - Jim Moriarty had somehow slipped out of the hospital under the confusion of the morning shift change. Livvy was beside herself, wanting to go back to the Hub and start searching, but unwilling to leave and Mycroft. Finally, John had called Napoleon and handed the mobile to Livvy. John himself was furious, although he wasn't sure if his anger was more at the hospital staff, or at Jim himself.

"He's going to get himself killed!" he muttered to Sherlock. They sat side by side on the wide windowsill in Mycroft's room, listening to the contact noise of the machines that surrounded the bed. It had been a little over an hour since Mycroft had been moved into the room, and so far, all they'd been able to do had been watch him sleep. The monitors were promising, though, and John had relayed that to the others with a practiced eye as they'd settled down for the long vigil. By unspoken agreement, the chairs that flanked the bed were given to Greg and to Mrs. Holmes. Mrs. Holmes sat straight and tall in her chair, both hands holding one of Mycroft's. Across from her, Greg had his arms folded on the bed, and was resting his chin on the back of his hands.

There was a light tapping on the door, and it opened slightly to reveal Molly, who gestured to John, beckoning him out of the room. John nodded and headed out into the hall, closing the door behind him.

"Molly?"

"I think he was downstairs," she said in a rush. "In the morgue. When I came up to talk to you, I left Moran covered. He was uncovered when I got back, and his personal effects were gone. And there was this..." Molly handed John an envelope, one that had John's name scrawled on the front.

"He left," John told her. "Shift change. We saw him leaving on the cameras." He broke open the envelope and pulled out a sheet of paper.

_Dear John,_

_By now, you know I'm gone. And you are probably as mad as a wet cat about it. I'm sorry. If I stay, I'll put everyone in danger. Once Milverton gets to the rest of the network, he'll tell them that I betrayed them. They'll come after me. Unless I go after them first._

_You put the idea into my head. To go after him, go after them. A month, you said. So, I'll see you in a month. Or not at all._

_Have a good life. Give Sherlock and Liv my best._

_Jim._

#

A month passed. Two. There was no word from Jim. Silently, John mourned. He visited Sebastian's grave every other Sunday, often with Livvy. And life went on.

Mycroft recovered, not nearly as quickly as he would have liked, but he was surrounded by people who refused to let him push the limits set by the doctor that Mrs. Holmes engaged to personally see to her eldest son's recuperation. She gave him no choice in the matter - he had to be healthy in time for the wedding.

He was. And almost exactly four months after, Sherlock Holmes was escorted down the aisle by both his mother and his older brother.

#

"A beautiful ceremony, Captain. Thank you so much for inviting us!"

"Thank you for coming, Sir Alistair, Lady Lethbridge-Stewart," John said with a smile and a salute. The Brigadier saluted back, then clapped John firmly on the shoulder and moved on. John hid the wince until the Brigadier's back was turned.

"Wrong shoulder?" Sherlock murmured.

"Yes," John answered through clenched teeth.

"I'll rub it later," Sherlock said with a smile, resting his hand in the small of John's back. "And other things."

"Behave, Mister Holmes-Watson," John whispered. "Your mother is watching."

"Of course I'll behave, Captain Doctor Watson-Holmes," Sherlock answered, and the both of the giggled.

The receiving line seemed to go on for miles, and seemed to be made of completely of strangers, people Mrs. Holmes had invited from society. There were some exceptions - the entire department was there, and most of Torchwood. John finally got to meet Buffy Summers and Willow Rosenberg in person, only be to told be was adorable. He wasn't quite certain how he felt about that, but Sherlock had been amused.

"How much longer?" John asked. Sherlock craned his neck, then his hand on John's back shook slightly. John looked up at his husband, alarmed. "What?"

"Come with me," Sherlock whispered, then smiled at the next person in line. "Excuse us, please. Won't be a moment." He dragged John away, through the crowd of people.

"What is it?" John demanded. Then Sherlock pulled him behind a pillar, and John's jaw dropped. "Jim!"

"Congratulations," Moriarty said softly. He smiled shyly. "I assumed I was invited?"

"Don't be ridiculous. Of course you were. You look..." Sherlock looked Jim up and down. "Terrible. You look terrible." John had to agree. The suit was neat, very dapper, and no longer fit Jim the way it was supposed to. The man looked older, thinner, and much scruffier than John remembered ever seeing him.

He snorted, "Flatterer."

"You're all right?" John asked. "When we didn't hear from you, we thought..."

"That I was dead?" Jim finished. He shook his head. "No. I went to ground. Once I was well enough, I started hunting. I haven't got him yet, but I will. I just... wanted to see you again. To say thank you. Thank you both. I saw Sebastian's..." he stopped, smiled slightly. "I saw Sebastian. Thank you, for that."

John smiled and, on impulse, reached out and hugged Jim, hard. He felt the other man stiffen slightly in surprise, then relax. As John let him go, he said, "Wait, I'll find Livvy. She'll want to see you."

"No!" Jim blurted out. "No. I don't want her to see me. Not yet. But..." he drew a thin box from his pocket. "Give her this. And thank you again."

John took the box, passed it to Sherlock. "If you're sure?"

"I'm sure," Jim answered, his voice firm. "I'll be back, if I can."

"You'd better," Sherlock answered. "You promised curry."

Jim looked startled, then laughed. "It was good to see you both."

"It was good to see you," Sherlock said, holding his hand out. "Good hunting, Jim."

Solemnly, Jim shook each of their hands. John held on a moment longer than necessary. "Take care of yourself, Jim," he said. "That's an order."

Jim smiled again, then quickly darted in and kissed John on the cheek. "Have a good life, John Watson. I'm glad I didn't kill you." Without another word, he turned and slipped away into the crowd.

"Was that him?"

Sherlock and John both turned to see Violet Holmes step out from behind the pillar. She took Sherlock's arm. "That was the young man who helped you save Mycroft, wasn't it? The one who went missing?"

"How much did you hear?" Sherlock asked.

"Nearly all of it. Is there any way to help him?" She peered through the crowd, then shook her head. "The poor thing. He's very lost, isn't he? Will he make it, do you think?"

"If he can't, no one could," John answered. A cold shiver ran down his spine, and he looked at the thin box in Sherlock's hand. "Although... Sherlock, may I see that box?"

Sherlock handed him the box, and John opened it, finding exactly what he expected inside. He drew out the set of military dog-tags. "These are Sebastian's," he said. "He wanted Livvy to have them. He doesn't expect to come back."

#

Somehow, it seemed fitting that for their first wedding anniversary, John and Sherlock spent the evening chasing down a murderer. John said as much in the back of the cab on the way home.

"Most couples, they go out to dinner on their anniversary," he added.

"We're not most couples," Sherlock pointed out.

"No, but we still need dinner. What say we clean up and head to Angelos?"

"I think that is an excellent idea," Sherlock answered as the cab pulled up in front of 221B. They hurried inside, and as John was closing the door, Sherlock stopped and sniffed.

"Do you smell that?" he asked, taking his mobile out of his pocket. He sent a quick text, then smiled at John.

John closed his eyes and took a long sniff. "Oh, that does smell good. Smells like..." his jaw dropped, and he sprinted up the stairs. Sherlock, with his longer legs, made it to their door first, throwing it open and rushing inside with John right behind him.

Inside, in their kitchen, Jim turned away from the stove and beamed at them. "Happy anniversary. Dinner in ten minutes. You have just enough time to wash up. And I'm not answering any questions until after you eat. So go wash." He turned back to the stove, and John dragged a loudly-protesting Sherlock off to their bedroom to wash up for dinner.

The curry was a fragrant memory, and John and Jim were both on their second beers before Jim started to talk. He took a long pull on the bottle and let out a deep breath. Then he smiled. "I brought you a present," he said, and reached behind him for a box that was sitting on the counter. He put it in front of Sherlock and grinned. "I hope you like the color. I didn't have much of a choice."

Sherlock opened the box, and his jaw dropped. He clapped his hands like a child and laughed. "Oh, magnificent!" he crowed. He arched one eyebrow at Jim, "Collect them yourself?"

"Naturally," Jim agreed.

Sherlock laughed and closed the box, pushing it across the table to John. Curious, John lifted the lid... and found the contents of the box looking back at him. He slammed the lid down in shock, stared at the two laughing men sitting at the table, then opened the box again.

"Eyes," he said. "You gave us... eyes."

"Oh, come now, Doctor," Sherlock chided. "You can do better than that!"

John peeked into the box again, then closed it - it was disconcerting to have the box peeking back at him. "These are Milverton's eyes, aren't they?"

Jim smiled proudly, "Yes, they are."

"And... is he dead, or just bumping into things?" John asked.

"He's very dead," Jim answered, taking another drink. "Most emphatically."

"Good," John said. He looked into the box again, then pushed it across the table to Sherlock. "So, what are we going to do with them? Put them in the skull?"

Sherlock snorted, and Jim started laughing. "No, no, no," Sherlock answered. "Cufflinks, perhaps?"

"Too big," John retorted. "Matching tie-tacks?"

"We neither of us wear ties if we can help it," Sherlock answered, and Jim collapsed into giggles.

John smiled, then looked down at his watch. "Was that enough time, do you think?" he asked.

"Time? Time for what?" Jim asked, wiping his eyes.

"Time for Mycroft and Livvy to get here," Sherlock answered. He looked up as the door opened. "Good evening, Brother! Come and sit; Jim makes a wonderful curry."

"Thank you," Mycroft said, coming inside. "Doctor, it is good to see you. I have yet to be able to offer my thanks. Or my condolences." He sat down at the foot of the table and smiled.

Jim swallowed, looking at John and Sherlock. "How did you know I was here?"

"Uncle Lock sent us a text," Livvy answered from the door.

"From downstairs," Sherlock added. "Once I smelled the curry, I knew."

Jim rose, giving no indication that he'd heard Sherlock at all. He walked around the table, and stopped. "Hello, Liv."

Livvy smiled. "I knew you were coming back," she said, and closed the distance between them. She hugged him tightly, then stepped back and pulled a chain out from underneath her shirt. "These are yours." she said, taking the dogtags from around her own neck and slipping the chain over Jim's head.

"Thank you." Jim ran his fingers over the metal tags, then put them under his shirt and took Livvy's hand. "Come and eat."

"So, what happened?" John asked as they shuffled and made room around the table.

"I found him in Switzerland," Jim answered, serving up more curry. "He knew I was chasing him, and he ran for his life. I tracked him down, and... well, most of him is at the bottom of the Reichenbach Falls, feeding the fish." Jim picked up his beer, noticed the bottle was empty, and set it down. "That was... three months ago, I think. I've spent a lot of time thinking since then."

"And? What have you learned?" Mycroft answered.

"That I can't go back," Jim answered. "The criminal network is gone. It took me twenty years to put it together, and not quite a year to destroy it. Some one of them might try to remake it, but it won't be me."

"What will you do?" Sherlock asked.

Jim shrugged. "No idea. The only thing I could think of when I was done was that I'd promised John Watson curry." He blushed slightly. "Seemed like a good goal."

"Perhaps we could offer you a better one?" Mycroft began. He took a sheaf of papers from inside his coat and held them out. "A new life?"

Jim frowned, reaching out and taking the papers. He opened them to reveal an envelope, and a pile of official paperwork. A birth certificate. School paperwork. A diploma. Opening the envelope revealed a wallet, complete with driver's license and credit cards, as well as a passport and bank paperwork. Jim spread them out and licked his lips.

"James M. Moran," he said. "You made everything out in the name of James Moran."

"My idea," Livvy admitted. "I didn't think you'd mind."

"It is the least that we can do," Myrcroft added. "You gave up your life for us, after all."

"Is there a catch?" Jim asked.

"Say rather, a job offer." Mycroft smiled. "If you are interested."

Jim looked down at the papers again, shuffled them, then looked up. "May I think about it?"

"Of course," Mycroft answered.

"Which reminds me," Sherlock said, then shouted, "Mrs Hudson?"

"Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson answered. "What is it?"

"Are there clean sheets on the spare bed?" Sherlock asked, winking at John. John snickered, then looked at the stunned look on Jim's face and started laughing.

"Still not your housekeeper, dear! But yes, I do think so."

"You want me to stay here?" Jim finally gasped.

"Well, that might have been high-handed of us. Do you have a place to stay?" John asked.

"No. But-"

"Say yes, Jim," Sherlock interrupted.

Jim licked his lips, then nodded. "Thank you."

John smiled down at his bottle, then looked at the box. He glanced at Sherlock, who grinned and nodded, so John pushed the box towards Mycroft.

"Jim brought these for you, Mycroft," he said blandly.

Mycroft looked surprised; he picked the box up, opened it, and his eyes widened. After a moment, he nodded and closed the box. "Very thoughtful, Jim. Thank you. Shall we put them in the skull, Sherlock?"


End file.
